besides. It's not I that am a thief."

For a moment Fowley looked confounded, while his wife turned pale and shivered. Then, with a brutal laugh, he clutched the strap and reached forward.

But the table was between them, and Dick had never felt more like a Lionheart than at that moment.

"You shall never beat me again, or call me names, never!" he cried, as he opened the door and dashed out into the November night.

There was a dense fog outside that seemed to swallow him instantly, and by the time Fowley got to the door the boy had vanished.

"He's escaped me this time, but he shall have a double dose when I set eyes on him again," said the man grimly, as he hung up the strap; "I'll let him know about father's money!"

"But who could have told him?" asked his wife, in a frightened tone. "What if he goes with his tale to the police, or to that meddling doctor, that took such notice of him. He's never been the same boy since then."

"Police! not he, but if he should, 'mum's' the word, mind. We never had naught but just enough to pay for the buryin'. He'll be back again, meek enough, come bedtime, and then you can find out."

And flinging the tools back into the box, the man, who had already drunk too much on his way home, lurched off to the "Blue Dragon," where all his evenings now were spent. But his wife sat over the fire and looked at the grate Dick had laboriously black-leaded that morning, and her thoughts were busy with the past. And her long sleeping conscience was awake, and she heard again the feeble voice of a dying man, "Send this letter to brother Richard at once. We quarrelled before he went off to Ironboro', but he'll come and see to things and take charge of little Dick. And there'll be enough to pay for his upbringing, when all's said and done." But the letter was conveniently forgotten, and presently thrust into the flames, and the leathern pouch with its store of gold greedily taken possession of, as soon as the lodger was dead. And like all ill-gotten gains, the gold rapidly melted away.

"Who could have knowed about it, and told the boy?" she muttered with growing anxiety, as she went to the door to look out for the runaway.

But there was nothing but the murky gloom, with a faint reflection of light from the lamps far down the road, and a noise of rough play in the distance. The children of the row—her own among them—were having their usual street games in spite of the fog and chill, but Dick would not be there, she knew. For he was different from the rest, and hated the rough horse-play and bad language with all his might.

"I must have a sup to make me forget it," she muttered again. "He looked for all the world like his father. I told Fowley at the time it would come home to us, and it will."

Noisily the children came in, clamoured for supper, and took it in their dirty hands, and then went to bed.

Their father was helped home at closing time, too far gone to remember what had happened, but no Dick came in.

Bareheaded he had run away through the fog, his thin jacket and broken boots a poor protection from the biting cold, but in his excitement he scarcely felt it.

In a hiding place in the lining of his old jacket he had the little pocket Bible that had been his mother's gift, with his name, Richard Hart Crosby, on the fly leaf.

Folded small within it were the torn remains of a once handsome crimson and blue silk handkerchief, the only memento of his father he possessed. Somehow it had escaped the utter destruction that visited all good things in Mrs. Fowley's keeping, and Dick treasured it more than words could tell.

Feeling with his hand to be sure his treasures were safe, he ran breathlessly on to Paddy's lodgings, in a back street not far from the tin works.

Paddy had good work and fair wages, and might have been comfortably off, but, alas, the "Blue Dragon" was not the only evil beast in Venley, and much of Paddy's money went to the till of the "Brown Bear" at the corner. Not that he drank deeply himself, but he loved the warmth and company, and was too generous to others in the matter of treating. There was always a chorus of welcome for Paddy when he entered the bar.

But to-night he was at home, busily engaged in putting a clumsy patch on his blue "slop" jacket, and he answered Dick's timid knock with a boisterous welcome.

"And have ye railly left the wretches entirely and going off to Ironboro' to seek your fortin? Shure, and its could weather for the job. And of course ye want Pat. But ye can't have him to-night. Come and have a bite and a sup and share me cot, and ye can be off in the mornin' before anybody's astir, if ye like. Down then, me beauty; shure and ye needn't' be so glad at the prospect of leaving Paddy!"

For Pat was wagging his short tail and barking and jumping in a storm of delight, while Dick hugged him with the blissful thought that now he would have him for always.

"You're so good to me," he cried gratefully, "but I'm afraid they'll find me if I wait till morning."

"Not they. Let me look at your boots."

Dick held up a shabby foot, and Paddy sniffed in disdain. Two of the Fowley's had worn the boots in turn, and they were now falling apart from stress of wear and weather.

"They're no good for the road, me boy. We'll see." And soon a supper of herrings and bread and butter and tea smoked invitingly on the table, and when this had been disposed of Paddy went out, locking the door.

In a surprisingly short time he came back with a stout pair of boots and some warm stockings, and a half-worn cloth overcoat and cap. "Shure, and ye won't mind their coming from the second-hand shop with the three yallow balls put up for ornyment. Me uncle lives there and he's very obligin'."

Dick flushed with a mixture of gratitude and shrinking. All his experiences at the Fowley's had not made him like to wear other people's clothes. But the boots were such a good fit. And the jacket would keep him so warm and be such a grand bed quilt if he and Pat had to sleep out.

But how could he take so much from Paddy? The Irishman's quick eyes saw and understood, and he said easily, "You can pay me back when you're Lord Mayor of Ironboro', with a gold chain round your neck and Pat with a leather collar and a brass plate to tell his name and nation."

"I'll pay long before that, if I live," cried Dick earnestly. "I don't mean to beg my way, either, if I can only get work going along."

"That's right, lad, work your passage out; but anyways this half-crown won't come amiss—we'll put it down in the ledger with the rest of the good debt accounts. You'll look out for your uncle—a foine dark man with brown eyes like your own, only maybe not so shiny. Give my best respecks to him, and tell him I persuaded you to get clear away from the villains."

Dick took out his pocket Bible to read his chapter with a glad feeling of security. He would never need to hide it from the Fowley's again. "Read it out, me boy, read it. There's good words in it, whatever the praste may say." And Dick read the first chapter of Joshua, and his voice rang out triumphantly in the words, "Be strong and of a good courage, be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest."

"Shure, them's good marching orders," said Paddy thoughtfully. "A body could even get past the 'Brown Bear' o' nights if he thought of them."

"It's easy to be Lionheart when the Lord God is along," said Dick wistfully. "I wish you wouldn't go in any more, Paddy, because I love you so, and God wouldn't maybe care to go into such places, and you'd have to leave Him outside."

"Just hark to the boy," said Paddy lightly, jumping up and making ready for bed.

But long after Dick's gentle breathing told of peaceful sleep Paddy lay wide awake, thinking of wasted money and worse than wasted health and time, and he almost resolved to leave the drink alone for ever.