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Miles assumed the role of the injured party, suiting
his language to his condition.
"What d'ee mean by that, you houtrageous willain?" he cried savagely,
to the great amusement of the bystanders, who instantly formed a
crowd round them. "Look wot a mess you've bin an' made o' my clean
frock! Don't you see?"
The poor little man could not see. He could only cough and gasp and

wipe his face with his coat-tails.
"I'd give you in charge o' the pleece, I would, if it wasn't that you've
pretty well punished yourself a'ready," continued Miles. "Take 'im to a
pump some o' you, 'cause I ain't got time. Good-day, spider-legs, an'
don't go for to run into a hartist again, with a paint-pot in 'is 'and."
So saying, Miles pushed through the laughing crowd and sauntered
away. He turned into the first street he came to, and then went forward
as fast as was consistent with the idea of an artisan in a hurry. Being
utterly ignorant of the particular locality into which he had
penetrated--though well enough acquainted with the main
thoroughfares of the city--his only care was to put as many intricate
streets and lanes as possible between himself and the detectives. This
was soon done, and thereafter, turning into a darkish passage, he got rid
of the paint-pot and borrowed costume.
Fortunately he had thrust his own soft helmet-shaped cap into his breast
at the time he put on the billycock, and was thus enabled to issue from
the dark passage very much like his former self, with the exception of a
few spots of whitewash, which were soon removed.
Feeling now pretty safe, our hero walked a considerable distance
through the unknown parts of the city, before he ventured to inquire the
way to thoroughfares with which he was familiar. Once in these, he
proceeded at a smart pace to one of the railway stations, intending to
leave town, though as yet he had formed no definite plan of action. In
truth, his mind was much troubled and confused by the action of his
conscience, for when the thought of leaving home and entering the
army as a private soldier, against his father's wishes, crossed his mind,
Conscience faithfully shook his head; and when softer feelings
prevailed, and the question arose irresistibly, "Shall I return home?" the
same faithful friend whispered, "Yes."
In a state of indecision, Miles found himself borne along by a human
stream to the booking-office. Immediately in front of him were two
soldiers,--one a sergeant, and the other a private of the line.

Both were tall handsome men, straight as arrows, and with that air of
self-sufficient power which is as far removed from arrogance as it is
from cowardice, and is by no means an uncommon feature in men of
the British army.
Miles felt a strong, unaccountable attraction towards the young private.
He had not yet heard his voice nor encountered his eye; indeed, being
behind him, he had only seen his side-face, and as the expression on it
was that of stern gravity, the attractive power could not have lain in that.
It might have lain in the youthful look of the lad, for albeit a goodly
man in person, he was almost a boy in countenance, being apparently
not yet twenty years of age.
Miles was at last roused to the necessity for prompt and decisive action
by the voice of the sergeant saying in tones of authority--
"Portsmouth--third--two--single."
"That's the way to go it, lobster!" remarked a shabby man, next in the
line behind Miles.
The grave sergeant paid no more regard to this remark than if it had
been the squeak of a mouse.
"Now, then, sir, your carridge stops the way. 'Eave a'ead. Shall I 'elp
you?" said the shabby man.
Thus admonished, Miles, scarce knowing what he said, repeated the
sergeant's words--
"Portsmouth--third--two--single."
"Vy, you ain't agoin' to pay for me, are you?" exclaimed the shabby
man in smiling surprise.
"Oh! beg pardon. I mean one," said Miles to the clerk, quickly.
The clerk retracted the second ticket with stolid indifference, and Miles,
hastening to the platform, sat down on a seat, deeply and

uncomfortably impressed with the fact that he possessed little or no
money! This unsatisfactory state of things had suddenly burst upon him
while in the act of paying for his ticket. He now made a careful
examination of his purse, and found its contents to be exactly seven
shillings and sixpence, besides a few coppers in his trousers-pocket.
Again indecision assailed him. Should he return? It was not too late.
"Yes," said Conscience, with emphasis. "No," said Shame. False pride
echoed the word, and Self-will re-echoed it. Still our hero hesitated,
and there is no saying what the upshot might have been