And now he found himself entering a town not at all answering Tom’s description of Hatherton.
The little town was silent, its doors and windows shut, and all except a few old-fashioned oil-lamps dark.
After walking listlessly about—afraid to knock and ask anywhere for shelter—worn out, he sat down on a door-step. He leaned back and soon fell fast asleep.
A shake by the shoulder roused him. A policeman was stooping over him.
“I say, get up out o’ that,” said the imperious voice of the policeman.
The boy was not half awake; he stared at him, his big face and leather-bound chimney-pot looked like a dream.
“I say,” he continued, shaking him, but not violently, “you must get up out o’ that. You’re not to be making yourself comfortable there all night. Come, be lively.”
Comfortable! Lively!—all comparative—all a question of degrees.
The boy got up as quickly as the cold and stiffness of his joints would let him.
Very dutifully he got up, and stood drenched, pale, and shivering in the moonlight.