“Tie it up,” he said, and I hastened to obey. “Now, then, young fellow,” he continued, “how is it you are sitting here asleep? Why don’t you go home?”
“Please, sir, I came up from the country to-day, and I ran away from a boy who wanted to steal my bundle, and then I sat down and fell asleep.”
“That’s a likely story,” he said, making the light of the lantern play upon my face. “Where were you going?”
“I don’t know, sir. Yes I do—to Mr Rowle.”
“And where’s Mr Rowle’s?”
“It’s—it’s—stop a minute, sir. I’ve got the address written down. It’s at a great printing-office.”
As I spoke I felt in my pockets one after the other for the address of Mr Rowle’s brother, but to my dismay I found that it was gone, and, search how I would, there was no sign of it in either pocket. At last I looked up full in the policeman’s face, to exclaim pitifully—“Please, sir, it’s gone.”
“Is it now?” he said in a bantering, sneering tone. “That’s a wonder, that is: specially if it warn’t never there. Look here, young fellow, what have you come to London for?”
“Please, sir, I’ve come to seek my fortune.”
“Oh, you have, have you? Now look here, which are you, a young innocent from the country, or an artful one? You may just as well speak out, for I’m sure to find out all about it.”