Changes the Scene Somewhat Violently, and Shows our Hero in a New Light.  
The result of our hero’s consultation with the scout was not quite as satisfactory as it might have been. Charlie had hoped that Hunky Ben would have been able to stay with Shank till he should return from the old country, but found, to his regret, that that worthy was engaged to conduct still further into the great western wilderness a party of emigrants who wished to escape the evils of civilisation, and to set up a community of their own which should be founded on righteousness, justice, and temperance.
 
“You see, sir,” said the scout, “I’ve gi’n them my promise to guide them whenever they’re ready to start, so, as they may git ready and call for my services at any moment, I must hold myself free o’ other engagements. To say truth, even if they hadn’t my promise I’d keep myself free to help ’em, for I’ve a likin’ for the good man—half doctor, half parson as well as Jack-of-all-trades—as has set the thing agoin’—moreover, I’ve a strong belief that all this fightin’, an’ scalpin’, an’ flayin’ alive, an roastin’, an’ revenge, ain’t the way to bring about good ends either among Red men or white.”
 
“I agree with you heartily, Ben, though I don’t very well see how we are to alter it. However, we must leave the discussion of that difficulty to another time. The question at present is, what hope is there of your staying here even for a short time after I leave? for in Dick Darvall’s present condition of mind he is not much to be depended on, and Jackson is too busy. You see, I want Shank to go out on horseback as much as possible, but in this unsettled region and time he would not be safe except in the care of some one who knew the country and its habits, and who had some sort of sympathy with a broken-down man.”
 
“All I can say, Mr Brooke, is that I’ll stay wi’ your friend as long as I can,” returned the scout, “an’ when I’m obleeged to make tracks for the west, I’ll try to git another man to take my place. Anyhow, I think that Mr Reeves—that’s the name o’ the good man as wants me an’ is boss o’ the emigrants—won’t be able to git them all ready to start for some weeks yet.”
 
Charlie was obliged to content himself with this arrangement. Next day he was galloping eastward—convoyed part of the way by the scout on Black Polly and Dick Darvall on Wheelbarrow. Soon he got into the region of railways and steam-boats, and, in a few weeks more was once again in Old England.
 
A post-card announced his arrival, for Charlie had learned wisdom from experience, and feared to take any one “by surprise”—especially his mother.
 
We need not describe this second meeting of our hero with his kindred and friends. In many respects it resembled the former, when the bad news about Shank came, and there was the same conclave in Mrs Leather’s parlour, for old Jacob Crossley happened to be spending a holiday in Sealford at the time.
 
Indeed he had latterly taken to spending much of his leisure time at that celebrated watering-place, owing, it was supposed, to the beneficial effect which the sea-air had on his rheumatism.
 
But May Leather knew better. With that discriminating penetration which would seem to be the natural accompaniment of youth and beauty, she discerned that the old gentleman’s motive for going so frequently to Sealford was a compound motive.
 
First, Mr Crossley was getting tired of old bachelorhood, and had at last begun to enjoy ladies’ society, especially that of such ladies as Mrs Leather and Mrs Brooke, to say nothing of May herself and Miss Molloy—the worsted reservoir—who had come to reside permanently in the town and who had got the “Blackguard Boy” into blue tights and buttons, to the amazement and confusion of the little dog Scraggy, whose mind was weakened in consequence—so they said. Second, Mr Crossley was remarkably fond of Captain Stride, whom he abused like a pick-pocket and stuck to like a brother, besides playing backgammon with him nightly, to the great satisfaction of the Captain’s “missus” and their “little Mag.” Third, Mr Crossley had no occasion to attend to business, because business, somehow, attended to itself, and poured its profits perennially into the old gentleman’s pocket—a pocket which was never full, because it had a charitable hole in it somewhere which let the cash run out as fast as it ran in. Fourth and last, but not least, Mr Crossley found considerable relief in getting away occasionally from his worthy housekeeper Mrs Bland. This relief, which he styled “letting off the steam” at one time, “brushing away the cobwebs” at another, was invariably followed by a fit of amiability, which resulted in a penitent spirit, and ultimately took him back to town where he remained till Mrs Bland had again piled enough of eccentricity on the safety valve to render another letting off of steam on the sea-shore imperative.
 
What Charlie learned at the meeting held in reference to the disappearance of old Mr Isaac Leather was not satisfactory. The wretched man had so muddled his brain by constant tippling that it had become a question at last whether he was quite responsible for his actions. In a fit of remorse, after an attack of delirium tremens, he had suddenly condemned himself as being a mean contemptible burden on his poor wife and daughter. Of course both wife and daughter asserted that his mere maintenance was no burden on them at all—as in truth it was not when compared with the intolerable weight of his intemperance—and they did their best to soothe him. But the idea seemed to have taken firm hold of him, and preyed upon his mind, until at last he left home one morning in a fit of despair, and had not since been heard of.
 
“Have you no idea, then, where he has gone?” asked Charlie.
 
“No, none,” said Mrs Leather, with a tear trembling in her eye.
 
“We know, mother,” said May, “that he has gone to London. The booking clerk at the station, you know, told us that.”
 
“Did the clerk say to what part of London he booked?”
 
“No, he could not remember.”
 
“Besides, if he had remembered, that would be but a slight clue,” said Mr Crossley. “As well look for a needle in a bundle of hay as for a man in London.”
 
“As well go to sea without rudder or compass,” observed Captain Stride.
 
“Nevertheless,” said Charlie, rising, “I will make the attempt.”
 
“Hopeless,” said Crossley. “Sheer madness,” added Stride. Mrs Leather shook her head and wept gently. Mrs Brooke sighed and cast down her eyes. Miss Molloy—who was of the council, being by that time cognisant of all the family secrets—clasped her hands and looked miserable. Of all that conclave the only one who did not throw cold water on our hero was pretty little brown-eyed May. She cast on him a look of trusting gratitude which blew a long smouldering spark into such a flame that the waters of Niagara in winter would have failed to quench it.
 
“I can’t tell you yet, friends, what I intend to do,” said Charlie. “All I can say is that I’m off to London. I shall probably be away some time, but will write to mother occasionally. So good-bye.”
 
He said a good deal more, of course, but that was the gist of it.
 
May accompanied him to the door.
 
“Oh! thank you—thank you!” she said, with trembling lip and tearful eyes as she held out her hand, “I feel sure that you will find father.”
 
“I think I shall, May. Indeed I also feel sure that I shall—God helping me.”
 
At the ticket office he found that the clerk remembered very little. He knew the old gentleman well by sight, indeed, but was in the habit of selling tickets to so many people that it was impossible for him to remember where they booked to. In fact the only thing that had fixed Mr Leather at all in his memory was the fact that the old man had dropped his ticket, had no money to take another, and had pleaded earnestly to let him have one on trust, a request with which he dared not comply—but fortunately, a porter found and restored the ticket.
 
“Is the porter you refer to still here?” asked Charlie.
 
Yes, he was there; and Charlie soon found him. The porter recollected the incident perfectly, for the old gentleman, he said, had made a considerable fuss about the lost ticket.
 
“And you can’t remember the station he went to?”
 
“No, sir, but I do remember something about his saying he wanted to go to Whitechapel—I think it was—or Whitehall, I forget which, but I’m sure it was white something.”
 
With this very slender clue Charlie Brooke presented himself in due time at Scotland Yard, at which fountain-head of London policedom he gave a graphic account of the missing man and the circumstances attending his disappearance. Thence he went to the headquarters of the London City Mission; introduced himself to a sympathetic secretary there, and was soon put in communication with one of the most intelligent of those valuable self-sacrificing and devoted men who may be styled the salt of the London slums. This good man’s district embraced part of Whitechapel.
 
“I will help you to the extent of my power, Mr Brooke,” he said, “but your quest will be a difficult one, perhaps dangerous. How do you propose to go about it?”
 
“By visiting all the low lodging-houses in Whitechapel first,” said Charlie.
 
“That will take a long time,” said the City Missionary, smiling. “Low lodging-houses are somewhat numerous in these parts.”
 
“I am aware of that, Mr Stansfield, and mean to take time,” returned our hero promptly. “And what I want of you is to take me into one or two of them, so that I may see something of them while under your guidance. After that I will get their streets and numbers from you, or through you, and will then visit them by myself.”
 
“But, excuse me, my friend,” returned the missionary, “your appearance in such places will attract more attention than you might wish, and would interfere with your investigations, besides exposing you to danger, for the very worst characters in London are sometimes to be found in such places. Only men of the police force and we city missionaries can go among them with impunity.”
 
“I have counted the cost, Mr Stansfield, and intend to run the risk; but thank you, all the same, for your well-meant warning. Can you go round one or two this afternoon?”
 
“I can, with pleasure, and will provide you with as many lodging-house addresses as I can procure. Do you live far from this?”
 
“No, quite close. A gentleman, who was in your Secretary’s office when I called, recommended a small lodging-house kept by a Mrs Butt in the neighbourhood of Flower and Dean Street. You know that region well, I suppose?”
 
“Ay—intimately; and I know Mrs Butt too—a very respectable woman. Come, then, let us start on our mission.”
 
Accordingly Mr Stansfield introduced his inexperienced friend into two of the principal lodging-houses in that neighbourhood. They merely passed through them, and the missionary, besides commenting on all that they saw, told his new friend where and what to pay for a night’s lodging. He also explained the few rules that were connected with those sinks into which the dregs of the metropolitan human family ultimately settle. Then he accompanied Charlie to the door of his new lodging and bade him good-night.
 
It was a dingy little room in which our hero found himself, having an empty and rusty fire-grate on one side and a window on the other, from which there was visible a landscape of paved court. The foreground of the landscape was a pump, the middle distance a wash-tub, and the background a brick wall, about ten feet distant and fifteen feet high. There was no sky to the landscape, by reason of the next house. The furniture was in keeping with the view.
 
Observing a small sofa of the last century on its last legs in a corner, Charlie sat down on it and rose again instantly, owing apparently to rheumatic complaints fro............