"Sir! Sir!" I cried eagerly, shrilly, feebly, with an awkward appealing gesture.
He put his hand in his pocket and threw me a shilling. So he thought I was a beggar girl. I was filled with a burning shame of my lowly appearance and shabby clothes, though truth to tell they were hardly as bad as I thought them. I let the coin roll into the gutter. Now he was passing me. My determination to make him know me became desperate: the joy of being recognized must be mine. My heart was throbbing as I came out into the middle of the road. I looked at him appealingly and cried out:
"Westward Ho! Westward Ho!"
He stared.
"I'm not a beggar; I'm the little girl you gave the book to in Torribridge. Don't you remember?"
He jumped from his horse.
"I do."
"Are you sure? Are you really sure?"
"Really! How is Aunt Jael?"
"Yes, yes, you do, you do!"