"What's that?"

Barney Bill explained. Paul was running away from home. The police,
informed of the fact, would raise a hue-and-cry. The cards, if
found, would be evidence. Paul laughed. The constabulary was not
popular in Budge Street.

"Mother ain't going to ha' nowt to do with the police, nor father,
either."

He hinted that the cards might be useful later. His childish vanity
loved the trivial encomiums inscribed thereon. They would impress
beholders who had not the same reasons for preoccupation as Barney
Bill.

"You're thinking of your 'igh-born parents," said Barney Bill. "All
right, keep 'em. Only hide 'ern away safe. And now get in and let us
clear out of this place. It smelts like a cheese with an escape of
gas running through it. And you'd better stay inside and not show
your face all day long. I don't want to be had up for kidnapping."

Paul jumped in. Barney Bill clambered onto the footboard and took
the reins. The old horse started and the van jolted its way to the
road, on which as yet no tramcars clattered. As the van turned,
Paul, craning his neck out of the window, obtained the last glimpse
of Bludston. He had no regrets. As far as such a thought could be
formulated in his young mind, he wished that the place could be
blotted out from his memory, as it was now hidden forever from his
vision. He stood at the little window, facing south, gazing toward