THE BOY TRAMP.
[(Continued from page 163.)]
I descended to terrible depths during those homeless days, and, at the lowest, when half-starving, dirty, hopeless, it happened that I almost ran against Mr. Parsons. It was about a quarter to three, in Brook Street. He stopped abruptly, and stood gazing at me with an evident effort to maintain his usual expression of benevolence.
'Now,' he said, smoothly, 'you will just make up your mind to come along with me, my lad.'
'I know I won't,' I answered.
He stood with his hands on the crook of his umbrella, while his lower jaw moved as if he were trying to swallow something; but whether it was one of his favourite aniseed lozenges, or his indignation against myself, was more than I could tell. One thing, however, seemed certain: if he strove to hide his wrath, it could only be with the object of getting me once more into his power.
'Ah, Jacky, my lad,' he exclaimed, shaking his head, 'you have not done much good for yourself since you turned your back on your best friend. A great mistake, Jacky—a great mistake!'
Indeed, I must have looked very disreputable. A pair of grey trousers, supported by one brace—the other having given way some days ago—a dirty shirt, neither jacket nor waistcoat, unwashed hands and face, boots coated in mud, hair which had not lately known a comb and brush—it would have been difficult to find a grubbier street-arab within a few miles.
'Anything is better than living with you,' I cried.