"Why not?" echoed Barney Bill. "Why not? You're a blooming lucky
kid. I wish I was a missin' heir. I know what I'd do."

"What?" asked Paul, the ingenuous.

"I'd find my 'igh-born parents."

"How?" asked Paul.

"I'd go through the whole of England, asking all the princes I met.
You don't meet 'em at every village pump, ye know," he added
quickly, lest the boy, detecting the bantering note, should freeze
into reserve; "but, if you keep yer eyes skinned and yer ears
standing up, you can learn where they are. Lor' lumme! I wouldn't be
a little nigger slave in a factory if I was the missin' heir. Not
much. I wouldn't be starved and beaten by Sam and Polly Button. Not
me. D'ye think yer aforesaid 'igh-born parents are going to dive
down into this stinkin' suburb of hell to find yer out? Not likely.
You've got to find 'em sonny. Yer can find anybody on the 'ighroad
if yer tramps long enough. What d'yer think?"

"I'll find 'em," said Paul, in dizzy contemplation of possibilities.

"When are yer going to start?" asked Barney Bill.

Paul felt his wages jingle in his pocket. He was a capitalist. The
thrill of independence swept him from head to foot. What time like
the present? "I'll start now," said he.