The noise and the shaking had at length awakened the infant. He knew
this because he felt her suck his cheek. She did not cry, believing him
her mother.

He was about to turn and wander long, perhaps, in the intersections of
the Scrambridge lanes, where there were then more cultivated plots than
dwellings, more thorn hedges than houses; but fortunately he struck into
a passage which exists to this day near Trinity schools. This passage
led him to a water-brink, where there was a roughly built quay with a
parapet, and to the right he made out a bridge. It was the bridge over
the Wey, connecting Weymouth with Melcombe Regis, and under the arches
of which the Backwater joins the harbour.

Weymouth, a hamlet, was then the suburb of Melcombe Regis, a city and
port. Now Melcombe Regis is a parish of Weymouth. The village has
absorbed the city. It was the bridge which did the work. Bridges are
strange vehicles of suction, which inhale the population, and sometimes
swell one river-bank at the expense of its opposite neighbour.

The boy went to the bridge, which at that period was a covered timber
structure. He crossed it. Thanks to its roofing, there was no snow on
the planks. His bare feet had a moment's comfort as they crossed them.
Having passed over the bridge, he was in Melcombe Regis. There were
fewer wooden houses than stone ones there. He was no longer in the
village; he was in the city.

The bridge opened on a rather fine street called St. Thomas's Street. He
entered it. Here and there were high carved gables and shop-fronts. He
set to knocking at the doors again: he had no strength left to call or
shout.