“Is this Devonshire, please?” asked Piers.
“You ought to know that, my little man. You were born here, I make no doubt.”
“It is quite true, I was born in Devonshire,” replied Piers. “But I have come from Cornwall. I have walked a very long way.”
“What a queer little chap! Can I do anything for you?”
Piers gazed earnestly up at Squire Furzby.
“May I speak to you as one gentleman to another?” he asked.
The Squire gazed hard at the battered and much dilapidated little apparition in the road.
“As one gentleman to another? Yes, certainly,” he said.
“As I am in Devonshire, and as tickets cost a great deal,” continued Piers, “I was going to ask if you would drive me to the nearest railway station, and if you would lend me my fare, third-class. I’m seven years old, so I shall only want a half-ticket to a station called Haversham.”
“What an extraordinary boy! What do you want to go to Haversham for? Have you no money of your own?”