"But which is the way?" said Dickie.
The man looked hard at him and then pointed with a grimy thumb over his shoulder.
"It's thirty mile if it's a yard," he said. "Got any chink?"
"I lost it," said Dicky. "My farver's there awaitin' for me."
"Garn!" said the man; "you don't kid me so easy."
"I ain't arstin' you for anything except the way," said Dickie.
"More you ain't," said the man, hesitated, and pulled his hand out of his pocket. "Ain't kiddin'? Sure? Father at Gravesend? Take your Bible?"
"Yuss," said Dickie.
"Then you take the first to the right and the first to the left, and you'll get a blue 'bus as'll take you to the 'Elephant.' That's a bit of the way. Then you arst again. And 'ere—this'll pay for the 'bus." He held out coppers.
This practical kindness went to Dickie's heart more than all the kisses of the young ladies in the flower-shop. The tears came into his eyes.
"Well, you are a pal, and no error," he said. "Do the same for you some day," he added.
The lounging man laughed.
"I'll hold you to that, matey," he said; "when you're a ridin' in yer carriage an' pair p'raps you'll take me on ter be yer footman."
"When I am, I will," said Dickie, quite seriously. And then they both laughed.
