Paul, thus challenged, confirmed the absolute veracity of Barney
Bill's statement. The latter continued, bending forward, his lean
brown hand on the boy's shoulder, and looking at him earnestly: "I
took yer away from your 'appy 'ome because, though the 'ome might
have been 'appy in its own sweet way, you wasn't. I wanted to set
yer on the track of yer 'ighborn parents. I wanted to make a man of
yer. I want to do the best for yer now, so I put it to yer straight:
If yer likes to come along of me altogether, I'll pay yer wages on
the next round, and when yer gets a little older I'll take yer into
partnership and leave yer the business when I die. It's a man's life
and a free life, and I think yer likes it, don't yer?"

"Ay," said Paul, "it's foine."

"On the other hand, as I said afore, I won't stand in yer way, and
if yer thinks you'll get nearer to your 'igh-born parents by
hitching up with Mr. Architect, well--you're old enough to choose.
I leave it to you."

But Paul had already chosen. The Road had its magical fascination,
to which he would have surrendered all his boyish soul, had not the
call of his destiny been more insistent. The Road led nowhither.
Princes and princesses were as rare as hips and haws in summer-time.
Their glittering equipages did not stop the van, nor did they stand
at the emblazoned gateways of great parks waiting patiently for
long-lost sons. He knew that he must seek them in their own social
world, and to this he would surely be raised by his phantasmagorial
income of thirty shillings a week.