So Clare went once more into the street, where Abdiel was again watching for him, and stood on the pavement, not knowing which way to turn. The big policeman had told him that no one there would give him work after what had happened; and now, therefore, he was only waiting for a direction to present itself. In a moment it occurred to him that, having come in at one end of the town, he had better go out at the other. He followed the suggestion, and Abdiel followed him—his head hanging and his tail also, for the joy of recovering his master had used up all the remnant of wag there was in his clock. He had no more frolic or scamper in him now than when Clare first saw him. How the poor thing had subsisted during the last few days, it were hard to tell. It was much that he had escaped death from ill-usage. Meanest of wretches are the boys or men that turn like grim death upon the helpless. Except they change their way, helplessness will overtake them like a thief, and they will look for some one to deliver them and find none. Traitors to those whom it is their duty to protect, they will one day find themselves in yet more pitiful plight than ever were they. But I fear they will not believe it before their fate has them by the throat.

Clare saw that the dog was famished. He stopped at a butcher's and bought him a scrap of meat for a penny. Then he had elevenpence with which to begin the world afresh, and was not hungry.

Out on the highway they went, in a perfect English summer day, with all the world before them. It was not an oyster for Clare to open with sword, pen, or sesame; but he might find a place on the outside of it for all that, and a way over it into a better—one that he could open and get at the heart of. The sun shone as on the day of the earthquake—deep in Clare's dimmest memorial cavern;—shone as if he knew, come what might, that all was well; that if he shone his heart out and went dark, nothing would go wrong; while, for the present, everything depended on his shining his glorious best.

“Come along, Abdiel,” said Clare; “we're going to see what comes next. At the worst, you know what hunger is, doggie, and that a good deal of it can be borne pretty well—though I'm not fond of it any more than you, doggie! We'll not beg till we're downright forced, and we won't steal. When that's the next thing, we'll just sit down, wag our tails, and die.—There!”

He gave him the last piece of his meat, and they trudged on for some time without speaking.

The sun was very hot, for it was past noon an hour or two, when they came to a public-house, with a pump before it, and a trough. Clare grew very thirsty when he saw the pump, and imagined the rush of a thick sparkling curve from its spout. But its handle was locked with a chain, to keep men and women from having water instead of beer. He went with longing to the trough, but the water in it was so unclean that, thirsty as he was, he could not look on it even as a last resource. He walked into the house.

“Please, ma'am,” he said to the woman at the bar, “would you allow me to pump myself a little water to drink?”

“You think I've got nothing to do but serve tramps with water!” she answered, throwing back her head till her nostrils were at right angles with the horizon.

“I'm not a tramp, ma'am,” said Clare.

“Show me your money, then, for a pot of beer, like other honest folk.”

“I'm afraid I told you wrong, ma'am,” returned Clare. “I'm afraid I am a tramp after all; only I'm looking for work, and most tramps ain't, I fancy.”

“They all say they are,” answered the woman. “That's your story, and that's theirs!”

“I've got elevenpence, ma'am; and could, I dare say, buy a pot of beer, though I don't know the price of one; but I don't see where I'm going to get any more money, and what we have must serve Abdiel and me till we do.”

“What right have you to a dog, when you ain't fit to pay your penny for a half-pint o' beer?”

“Don't be hard on the young 'un, mis'ess; he don't look a bad sort!” said a man who stood by with a pewter pot in his hand.

Clare wondered why he had his cord-trousers pulled up a few inches and tied under his knees with a string, which made little bags of them there. He had to think for a mile after they left the public-house before he discovered that it was to keep them from tightening on his knees when he stooped, and so incommoding him at his work.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I'm not a bad sort. I didn't know it was any harm to ask for water. It ain't begging, is it, sir?”

“Not as I knows on,” replied the man. “Here, take the lot!”

He offered Clare his nearly emptied pewter.

“No, thank you, sir,” answered Clara “I am thirsty—but not so thirsty as to take your drink from you. I can get on to the next pump. Perhaps that won't be chained up like a bull!”

“Here, mis'ess!” cried the man. “This is a mate as knows a neighbour when he sees him. I'll stand him a half-pint. There's yer money!”

Without a word the woman flung the man's penny in the till, and drew Clare a half-pint of porter. Clare took it eagerly, turned to the man, said, “I thank you, sir, and wish your good health,” and drained the pewter mug. He had never before tasted beer, or indeed any drink stronger than tea, and he did not like it. But he thanked his benefactor again, and went back to the trough.

“Dogs don't drink beer,” he said to himself. “They know better!” and lifting Abdiel he held him over the trough. Abdiel was not so fastidious as his master, and lapped eagerly. Then they pursued their uncertain way.

Ready to do anything, he thought the shabbiness of his clothes would be a greater bar to indoor than to outdoor work, and applied therefore at every farm they came to. But he did not look so able as he was, and boys were not much wanted. He never pitied himself, and never entreated: to beg for work was beggary, and to beggary he would not descend until driven by approaching death. But now and then some tender-hearted woman, oftener one of ripe years, struck with his look—its endurance, perhaps, or its weariness mingled with hope—would perceive the necessity of the boy, and offer him the food he did not ask—nor like him the less that, never doubting what came to one was for both, he gave the first share of it to Abdiel.