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“Birds’ nests—​eh, youngster?” cried Peace.

“Yes, sir. Do, for mercy’s sake, buy some, either eggs or nests.”

“I’m going to the theatre, my lad, and can’t be bothered with things of that sort.”

“Won’t you buy?”

“No, certainly not. Where do you hail from?”

“Broxbridge.”

“I thought so. Well, here’s something to keep the devil out of your pocket.”

Peace presented the boy with a shilling. At the sight of this he was in perfect ecstasies.

“Oh! thank you, sir—​thank you,” he ejaculated. “May Heaven reward you!”

“Shut up; that ’ill do,” cried Peace, with a deprecating gesture—​then he put his arm in that of his friend’s, and the two walked away.

“He’s a rare good sort—​a stunner,” cried Alf. “No nonsense or collywabbling about him; he outs with a shiner at once.”

He passed down Parliament-street and bent his steps in the direction of Westminster.

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Alf Purvis had waited patiently, like Mr. Micawber, till something turned up—​the good Samaritan, who had relieved him in the hour of his despair, being, as we have already seen, our hero Charles Peace. There was good reason for this.