to him a large sum, and it was all in silver. As he had become more composed, he began to reflect upon what he had better do; where should he go to?—London. It was a long way, he knew, but the farther he was away from home, the better. Besides, he had heard much of London, and that every one got employment there. Joey resolved that he would go to London; he knew that he had taken the right road so far, and having made up his mind, he rose up, and proceeded. He knew that, if possible, he must not allow himself to be seen on the road for a day or two, and he was puzzled how he was to get food, which he already felt would be very acceptable; and then, what account was he to give of himself if questioned? Such were the cogitations of our little hero as he wended his way till he came to a river, which was too deep and rapid for him to attempt to ford—he was obliged to return to the high road to cross the bridge. He looked around him before he climbed over the low stone wall, and perceiving nobody, he jumped on the footpath, and proceeded to the bridge, where he suddenly faced an old woman with a basket of brown cakes something like ginger-bread. Taken by surprise, and hardly knowing what to say, he inquired if a cart had passed that way.
“Yes, child, but it must be a good mile ahead of you,” said the old woman, “and you must walk fast to overtake it.”
“I have had no breakfast yet, and I am hungry; do you sell your cakes?”
“Yes, child, what else do I make them for? three a penny, and cheap too.”
Joey felt in his pocket until he had selected a sixpence, and pulling it out, desired the old woman to give him cakes for it, and, taking the pile in his hand, he set off as fast as he could. As soon as he was out of sight, he again made his way into the fields, and breakfasted upon half his store. He then continued his journey until nearly one o’clock, when, tired out with his exertions, as soon as he had finished the remainder of his cakes, he laid down under a rick of corn, and fell fast asleep, having made twenty miles since he started. In his hurry to escape pursuit, and the many thoughts which occupied his brain, Joey had made no observation on the weather; if he had, he probably would have looked after some more secure shelter than the lee-side of a haystack. He slept soundly, and he had not been asleep more than an hour, when the wind changed, and the snow fell fast; nevertheless, Joey slept on, and probably never would have awakened more, had it not been that a shepherd and his dog were returning home in the evening, and happened to pass close to the haystack. By this time Joey had been covered with a layer of snow, half an inch deep, and had it not been for the dog, who went up to where he laid, and commenced pawing the snow off of him, he would have been passed by undiscovered by the shepherd, who, after some trouble, succeeded in rousing our hero from his torpor, and half dragging, half lifting him, contrived to lead him across one or two fields, until they arrived at a blacksmith’s shop, in a small village, before Joey could have been said to have recovered his scattered senses. Two hours’ more sleep and there would have been no further history to give of our little hero.
He was dragged to the forge, the fire of which glowed under the force of the bellows, and by degrees, as the warmth reached him, he was restored to self-possession. To the inquiries made as to who he was, and from where he came, he now answered as he had before arranged in his mind. His father and mother were a long way before him; he was going to London, but having been tired, he had fallen asleep under the haystack, and he was afraid that if he went not on to London directly, he never might find his father and mother again.
“Oh, then,” replied the shepherd, “they have gone on before, have they? Well, you’ll catch them, no doubt.”
The blacksmith’s wife, who had been a party to what was going on, now brought up a little warm ale, which quite re-established Joey; and at the same time a waggon drove up to the door, and stopped at the blacksmith’s shop.
“I must have a shoe tacked on the old mare, my friend,” said the driver. “You won’t be long?”
“Not five minutes,” replied the smith. “You’re going to London?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Here’s a poor boy that has been left behind by his father and mother somehow—you wouldn’t mind giving him a lift?”
“Well, I don’t know; I suppose I must be paid for it in the world to come.”
“And good pay too, if you earn it,” observed the blacksmith.
“Well, it won’t make much difference to my eight horses, I expect,” said the driver, looking at Joey; “so come along, youngster: you may perch yourself on top of the straw, above the goods.”
“First come in with me, child,” said the wife of the blacksmith; “you must have some good victuals to take with you—so, while you shoe the horse, John, I’ll see to the boy.”
The woman put before Joey a dish in which were the remains of more than one small joint, and our hero commenced his attack without delay.
“Have you any money, child?” inquired the woman.
Joey, who thought she might expect payment, replied, “Yes ma’am, I’ve got a shilling;” and he pulled one out of his pocket and laid it out on the table.
“Bless the child! what do you take me for, to think that I would touch your money? You are a long way from London yet, although you have got such a chance to get there. Do you know where to go when you get there?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Joey; “I shall get work in the stables, I believe.”
“Well, I dare say that you will; but in the meantime you had better save your shilling—so we’ll find something to put this meat and bread up for your journey. Are you quite warm now?”
“Yes, thank’ee, ma’am.”
Joey, who had ceased eating, had another warm at the fire, and in a few minutes, having bade adieu, and giving his thanks to the humane people, he was buried in the straw below the tilt of the waggon, with his provisions deposited beside him, and the waggon went on his slow and steady pace, to the tune of its own jingling bells. Joey, who had quite recovered from his chill, nestled among the straw, congratulating himself that he should now arrive safely in London, without more questioning. And such was the case: in three days and three nights, without any further adventure, he found himself, although he was not aware of it, in Oxford-street, somewhat about eight or nine o’clock in the evening.
“Do you know your way now, boy?” said the carman.
“I can ask it,” replied Joey, “as soon as I can go to the light and read the address. Good-bye, and thank you,” continued he, glad at last to be clear of any more evasive replies.
The carman shook him by the hand as they passed the Boar and Castle, and bade him farewell, and our hero found himself alone in the vast metropolis.
What was he to do? He hardly knew—but one thought struck him, which was, that he must find a bed for the night. He wandered up and down Oxford Street for some time, but every one walked so quick that he was afraid to speak to them: at last a little girl, of seven or eight years of age, passed by him, and looked him earnestly in the face.
“Can you tell me where I can get a bed for the night?” said Joey.
“Have you any brads?” was the reply.
“What are those?” said Joey.
“Any money, to be sure; why, you’re green—quite.”
“Yes, I have a shilling.”
“That will do—come along, and you shall sleep
