It was the beginning of a new life. Dickie wrote out their accounts on a large flagstone near the horse trough by the "Chequers," with a bit of billiard chalk that a man gave him.
It was like this:—
| Got | Box | 4 |
| Box | 4 | |
| Box | 4 | |
| Box | 4 | |
| Dog | 40 | |
| Dog | 14 | |
| 70 | ||
| Spent | Dogs | 4 |
| Grub | 19 | |
| Tram | 4 | |
| Leg | 2 | |
| 29 |
and he made out before he rubbed the chalk off the stone that the difference between twenty-nine shillings and seventy was about two pounds—and that was more than Dickie had ever had, or Beale either, for many a long year.
Then Beale came, wiping his mouth, and they walked idly up the road. Lodgings. Or rather a lodging. A room. But when you have had what is called the key of the street for years enough, you hardly know where to look for the key of a room.
"Where'd you like to be?" Beale asked anxiously. "You like country best, don't yer?"
"Yes," said Dickie.
"But in the winter-time?" Beale urged.
"Well, town then," said Dickie, who was trying to invent a box of a new and different shape to be carved next day.
"I could keep a lookout for likely pups," said Beale; "there's a plenty here and there all about—and you with your boxes. We might go to three bob a week for the room."