I said that I was going to walk there, to see the Lord Mayor.
"To—see—the—Lord Mayor," she repeated. "Is the boy daft, or what?"
I blushed, and hung my head, for I did not like to be laughed at.
"What are you going to see the Lord Mayor for?" she asked with a smile.
I answered that he would send me home to my friends, as he was always generous to people in distress. She laughed very heartily when I had said this: but still, not unkindly. Then she asked me a lot of questions about my joining the smugglers, about my friends at home (particularly if they were well off), and about the money I had to carry me to London. When I had told her everything, she said,—"Well, why don't you write to your friends from here? Surely that's a more sensible plan than going to London—why, London's seventy miles. Write to your friends from here. They will get the letter in three or four days. They will be here within a week from now. That's a wiser thing to do than going to London. Why, you'd die in a ditch before you got half-way."
"I shouldn't," I answered hotly.
"Well, if you didn't you'd get taken up. It's all the same," she answered. "You stop here and write to your friends. I will see that the letter goes all right. I suppose," she continued, "I suppose your friends wouldn't let me be a loser by you? They'd pay for what you ate and that?"
"Yes," I said, "of course they will."
"What's your name?" she said sharply.
I told her.