Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on

London Bridge — he was more so when he got out of it. He had but little

Money when he got in, none at all when he got out. The pickpockets had

Stripped him of his last farthing.

But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he did not go at his task in

A random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange his campaign.

What would the boy naturally do? Where would he naturally go? Well —

Argued Miles — he would naturally go to his former haunts, for that is the

Instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken, as well as of sound

ones. Whereabouts were his former haunts? His rags, taken together with the

Low villain who seemed to know him and who even claimed to be his father,

Indicated that his home was in one or other of the poorest and meanest

districts of London. Would the search for him be difficult, or long? No, it was

Likely to be easy and brief. He would not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a

Crowd; in the center of a big crowd or a little one, sooner or later he should

Find his poor little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining

Itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be proclaiming

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Himself king, as usual. Then Miles Hendon would cripple some of those

People, and carry off his little ward, and comfort and cheer him with loving