Tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then
got it out—
“To crack nuts with!”
Poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted
this nearly swept him off his feet. But if a
doubt remained in any mind that Tom Canty was not
the King of England and familiar with the august appurtenances
of royalty, this reply disposed of it utterly.
Meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed
from Tom’s shoulders to the King’s, whose
rags were effectually hidden from sight under it.
Then the coronation ceremonies were resumed; the true
King was anointed and the crown set upon his head,
whilst cannon thundered the news to the city, and
all London seemed to rock with applause.
Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got
into the riot on London Bridge—he was more
so when he got out of it. He had but little money
when he got in, none at all when he got out.
The pickpockets had stripped him of his last farthing.
But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a
soldier, he did not go at his task in a random way,
but set to work, first of all, to arrange his campaign.
What would the boy naturally do? Where would
he naturally go? Well —argued Miles—he
would naturally go to his former haunts, for that is
the instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken,
as well as of sound ones. Whereabouts were his
former haunts? His rags, taken together with
the low villain who seemed to know him and who even
claimed to be his father, indicated that his home
was in one or another of the poorest and meanest districts
of London. Would the search for him be difficult,
or long? No, it was likely to be easy and brief.
He would not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for
a crowd; in the centre of a big crowd or a little
one, sooner or later, he should find his poor little
friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining
itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who
would be proclaiming himself King, as usual.
Then Miles Hendon would cripple some of those people,
and carry off his little ward, and comfort and cheer
him with loving words, and the two would never be
separated any more.
So Miles started on his quest. Hour after hour
he tramped through back alleys and squalid streets,
seeking groups and crowds, and finding no end of them,
but never any sign of the boy. This greatly surprised
him, but did not discourage him. To his notion,
there was nothing the matter with his plan of campaign;
the only miscalculation about it was that the campaign
was becoming a lengthy one, whereas he had expected
it to be short.
When daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a
mile, and canvassed many a crowd, but the only result
was that he was tolerably tired, rather hungry and
very sleepy. He wanted some breakfast, but there
was no way to get it. To beg for it did not
occur to him; as to pawning his sword, he would as
soon have thought of parting with his honour; he could
spare some of his clothes—yes, but one
could as easily find a customer for a disease as for
such clothes.
