The urchin withdrew his head from between the two iron rails through which he had managed to squeeze it, and eyed his questioner. He was a little lad, smaller than Bertie, hatless, shoeless, in a ragged pair of trousers which were several sizes too large for him, and which were rolled up in a bunch about his ankles to enable him to put his feet far enough through to touch the ground.
"What, this? this 'ere? no, this ain't London."
"How far is it then?"
"How far is it? what, London? It just depends what part of London might you be wanting?"
"Any part; I don't care."
The urchin whistled. His small, keen eyes had been reading his questioner all the time, and Bertie was conscious of a sense of discomfort as he observed the curious gaze. In some odd way he felt that this little lad was bigger and stronger, and older than himself; that he looked down at him, as it were, from a height.
"Say, matey, where might you be going to? You don't look as though you knowed your way about, not much, you don't."
The cool tone of superiority irritated Bertie. Tired and weary as he was, and a little sick at heart, he was not going to allow a little shrimp like this to look down on him.
"If you won't tell me the way, why, that's enough. I don't want any of your cheek."
Bertie moved on, but the other called after him.