The confusing eddy of people outside Liverpool Street Station startled him, so that he stood back to let them go by, until he remembered that they did not cease to flow before midnight, and then he laughed at himself and made his way out into Bishopsgate.  He had a fine sense of freedom in the consciousness that he was his own master; within wide limitations he could go where he pleased and do as he pleased, and no one had the right to say him nay.  It seemed like getting rid of a suit of armour.  He gave himself the luxury of swearing softly as he walked along, in order to prove conclusively that he was no longer trammelled by the code of rules that obtained at the Cottage Homes.  Walking up towards Shoreditch Church it appeared to the boy that he was as fine a fellow as any in the crowd of men hurrying along the pavement, that his daring and his independence were sufficient for about six ordinary men; he felt very much inclined to stop one or two in order to tell them so.  The better to live up to his new character of a regular blade, he turned into the saloon bar of a gorgeous, over-mirrored, over-painted, over-furnished public-house, and addressing a superb young lady who behind the bar read a pamphlet called “An Amusing Way to Pick up Biology,” asked in a deep, effective voice for a sherry and bitters.  The superb young lady, seemingly dazed with study, gave him instead a small bottle of lemonade and a hard biscuit; Bobbie, awed by her appearance, did not dare to complain of the mistake.  He endeavoured, however, to entice the large young woman into manly conversation by asking her how long it was since she had left the old place, but she only answered absently, without looking up from her hook, “Outside with those bootlaces, please,” and Bobbie refrained from repeating his question.

At the corner of Drysdale Street he met a first friend in the person of Niedermann, otherwise Nose, grown ridiculously tall, and garbed in a frock coat queerly short at the sleeves.  Niedermann did not know him at first, but when recognition came he became at once interested, and asked a number of questions, some of which Bobbie answered truthfully.

“What you ought to go and do, ole man,” said Niedermann, acutely, “is to disguise yourself.”

“How d’you mean disguise myself?”

“Why, put on a false beard,” said the frock-coated lad, “and blue spectacles, and what not.  You’ll get copped else.”

“They won’t trouble,” said the boy uneasily.

“Take my advice or not, jest as you like.  But I know what I should do.”

“Very likely they’re glad to get rid of me,” argued Bobbie.  “It’ll be a saving to them of pounds a year, and besides—”

“Tell you what you could do,” said Master Niedermann, looking at him thoughtfully, “and that too without no trouble.  You see this coat and weskit of mine.”

“I see what there’s left of ’em.”

“Swop!” said the long youth walking with Bobbie down towards the railway arch.  “These what I’ve got are a bit short for me, because I’m a grown lad, as you may see.  But they’ll suit you a treat, and, besides, p. 55if they circulate your description, no one in these togs ’ll recognize you for a moment.”

“Wouldn’t see me if I was to get inside of ’em.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Niedermann patiently.  “What did you say the address was that you’ve run away from?”  Bobbie gave the information.  “I shall remember.”

“You’ve no call to remember,” said the boy sharply.

“I carry it all ’ere,” said Master Niedermann darkly, tapping his unwashed forehead; “regular store’ouse of information my brain is.”

“What makes you call it a brain?” asked Bobbie.

“Do you particularly want your ’ead punched?” asked Master Niedermann fiercely.  “Because, if so, you’ve only got to say the word, and—”  He recovered himself with an effort.  “But putting all argument a one side,” he said genially, “you try on my coat and see how it fits.”

On Bobbie complying, Master Niedermann took no pains to conceal his approval of the change.

“My word!” he said, “you might a been measured for it by a West-End tailor.”

“Ain’t it a bit long in the tails?” asked Bobbie.

“All the better for that,” declared the long youth with enthusiasm.  “They’re wearing ’em long.”

“Now give me back my jacket,” said Bobbie.

“That be ’anged for a tale,” answered Niedermann, with an injured expression.  “A bargain’s a bargain.”

“But this isn’t a bargain,” expostulated the boy in the frock-coat.  “I never said—”

“Look here,” said the long youth threateningly.  “Do you want me to give you up to the police?”

After the interview with Master Niedermann Bobbie determined to avoid friends for the rest of that evening.  He therefore walked about the streets of Hoxton, his cornet wrapped in a newspaper under his arm, dodging when he saw a face known to him.  He glanced at himself on passing shop windows, and tried to believe that the frayed frock-coat gave him an increased air of manliness.  Strolling cautiously into Pimlico Walk, and inspecting the little bonnet shop kept by Eliza Bell, he saw Trixie at the counter; her black hair rolled up and arranged carefully above her pretty neck, she wore a pink blouse with neat collar and cuffs, her face had a touch of colour, and Bobbie for the first time felt that he would like to kiss her.  He knew, however, that to enter the shop of Mrs. Bell would necessitate listening to reproof and good advice, neither of which things was that evening desired by him.  The same motive stopped him from taking a ’bus to Fetter Lane to call upon Myddleton West, whose address he remembered; he told himself that he enjoyed liberty too much to allow it to be checked by sage counsels.  Going up to Ely Place and turning, with some idea of going through in order to see the house where he had spent some of his life, he had but passed the dwarf posts at the entrance when at least six separate and offensive odours rushed furiously at him.  He coughed and turned back.

But in the Theatre of Varieties he found joy.  He paid a shilling to the old lady in the pay box up the sawdust-covered steps, and on the old lady shouting, “Jimes,” James in uniform just inside the swing doors of the crowded, heated music hall, said, “Yessir.  This way, sir.  Stand a p. 56one side, please, and let the genelman pass,” and conducted Bobbie ceremoniously past the folk who were standing at the back of the first balcony; unlocked the door, showed him into the box; fetched a programme, accepted twopence with a military salute, called Bobbie “Me lord,” evidently mistaking him for a member of the aristocracy.  Then the boy settled down on the front bench in the box, preparing to enjoy himself.  Fine to see the upturned faces from the twopenny pit—they sat down in the pit now, he observed; in his day you had to stand—the rows and rows of interested faces in the twopenny gallery, and to note that many of them were watching him, the only occupant of the shilling boxes.  He felt confused at first with this attention.  Shielding himself behind the dusty curtains, he gazed at Mlle. Printemps, who, with paper rose in her hair, bare arms, bare shoulders, and scarlet tights, kept her footing on a large white marble globe, juggling the while with plates and knives and bottles.  Once or twice Mlle. Printemps, who was a little thin, perhaps, and red at the elbows, but an agreeable person for all that, came over on the great white globe quite close to the box in which Bobbie was seated, whereupon he said softly (being a desperate sort of rattle out for the evening), “I’ll ’ave your flower, miss,” and felt relieved to find that the thin lady on the globe had not overheard him.  Then came Bray and Wilkins, described on the yellow slip as Irish-American duettists, the finest humorists of two hemispheres, whose humour was not, perhaps, so much fine as broad, being conducted somewhat in this way: Bray, facing the audience, shouted, “Oi say; have you heard about me wife?” and Wilkins, also facing the audience, shouted back, “Oi have not heard about your wife;” after a whispered communication, Wilkins assumed incredulity, and said, “Oi don’t believe it, sorr,” and Bray, indignant, said, “It’s the truth I’m giving ye; a fine bouncing boy at eighteen minutes past five.”  “Oi’ll not believe it,” persisted Wilkins, “it’s all your kid,” to which Bray replied indignantly, “It’s not my kid, sorr,” and Wilkins retorted at once, “Who’s kid is it, then?”  Followed, tremendous personal chastisement, which made Bobbie laugh until tears came.  After the American duettists, Mr. Tom Somebody came shyly on the stage, affecting to be astonished at finding himself there and rather wishful to go off again, but, on being humorously appealed to by the conductor, deciding to stay.  Mr. Tom Somebody had been jilted by the lady of his heart, and it seemed to the judicial observer that the lady might have found excuse for her conduct in the singular manner of apparel the gentleman wore, for he had no hat, but only the brim of a hat, his jacket was very short, and his trousers very baggy; a paper front stuck out ludicrously at his chest, and—this made Bobbie shriek with delight—he had in the hurry of dressing placed his collar around his waist.

          “For she’s a daisy,
          She sends me crazy,
    No wonder people say I’m getting pline;
          She only flouts me,
          And sometimes outs me,
    I’m goin’ simply barmy on account of Emmer-jine.”

At half-past eight the band played the National Anthem; the attendants shouted the order for dispersal, and Bobbie, giving up the private box with a sigh, followed the crowd down the stone staircase.  Outside, the patrons of the second performance waited impatiently in a line at the edge of the p. 57pavement.  Bobbie recognized one or two faces in the crowd; they looked older, he thought, and slightly dirtier; those whom he remembered as boys of about his own age were accompanied by young ladies, whose bare heads shone with oil, and who wore, for the most part, maroon-coloured dresses, partly shielded by aprons; they seemed in excellent spirits, and shouted defiant badinage to friends at a distance.  To Bobbie walking down towards Old Street, it occurred that the true touch of manliness would not he achieved until he secured the company of a member of the opposite sex.  He went into a tobacconist’s shop and bought a twopenny cigar, with a paper belt, which he selected from a box labelled “The Rothschild Brand,” and smoking this, he, with the cornet placed in the capacious tail pocket of the frock-coat, strolled through Shoreditch to Hackney Road.  He winked at one or two young women hurrying home with hot suppers laid on pieces of paper, but they only sneered at him, one lady of about thirteen declaring indignantly that, were her hands not full, she would fetch him a clip side the ear.

“It’s this blooming coat,” said Bobbie ruefully.

These repulses brought disappointment, but happily there existed other ways of proving to the world that he was now thoroughly grown up.  He went into a quiet public-house, where, in the private bar, some bemused men were talking politics, and on the invitation of the anxious young proprietor, who appeared to be new to the business and desirous of obtaining custom, Bobbie gave his opinion on the question of increasing the strength of the Navy, and, encouraged by beer, found himself quite eloquent.  So eloquent, indeed, that presently he insisted upon contradicting everybody, and some unpleasantness ensued.

“You’ll ’scuse me, my boy,” said a white-faced, sleepy-eyed baker, pointing unsteadily at Bobbie with the stem of his pipe, “you’ll ’scuse me if I take the lib’ty of tellin’ you—or rather I sh’ say, informing you—that you’re a liar.”

“You repeat that,” said Bobbie, flushed and aggressive.  “Go on!  Say that again and see what ’appens.”

“It was only meant as a pleasant joke, I expect,” urged the young proprietor nervously from the other side of the counter.  “Shake ’ands and make it up.”

“Let him call me that again,” said the boy fiercely.  “That’s all.  I’ll learn him, the—”

“What’d I call you?” inquired the tipsy baker.  “Best of my rec’lection I called you hon’ble young genleman.  Do you deny, sir, that you’re hon’ble young genleman?  Because, if so,” added the baker with great solemnity, “if so, I shall have great pleasure in—hic—drinkin’ your ’ealth.”

“I’ve been insulted!” shouted the scarlet-faced boy violently, “in the presence of gentlemen!  I want this put right!  I want an apology!  I’m as good a man—”

“Look ’ere,” interrupted the anxious young publican.  “’Ave a ceegar at my expense, and let............