as by the hand of an artist. And the forlorn little tramp had no
shoes; his feet were bare, red, and swollen, and when he walked he
limped with both legs. As to clothing--ah, you would hardly have had
the skill to name any single garment that he wore, or say by what
magic he kept it upon him. That he was cold all over and all through
did not admit of a doubt; he knew it himself. Anyone would have been
cold there that evening; but, for that reason, no one else was there.
How Jo came to be there himself, he could not for the flickering
little life of him have told, even if gifted with a vocabulary
exceeding a hundred words. From the way he stared about him one
could have seen that he had not the faintest notion of where (nor
why) he was.

Yet he was not altogether a fool in his day and generation; being
cold and hungry, and still able to walk a little by bending his knees
very much indeed and putting his feet down toes first, he decided to
enter one of the houses which flanked the street at long intervals
and looked so bright and warm. But when he attempted to act upon
that very sensible decision a burly dog came bowsing out and disputed
his right. Inexpressibly frightened and believing, no doubt (with
some reason, too) that brutes without meant brutality within, he
hobbled away from all the houses, and with gray, wet fields to right
of him and gray, wet fields to left of him--with the rain half
blinding him and the night coming in mist and darkness, held his way
along the road that leads to Greenton. That is to say, the road
leads those to Greenton who succeed in passing the Oak Hill Cemetery.
A considerable number every year do not.

Jo did not.