It had occurred to me to go on as fast as I could towards Salem House, and spend the night behind the wall at the back of my old school, where there used to be a haystack.  I imagined it would be a kind of company to have the boys and the bedroom where I used to tell the stories, so near me.  I had a hard day’s walk, and with great trouble found Salem House, and the haystack, and lay down outside the dark and silent house.  Never shall I forget the lonely sensation of first lying down, without a roof above my head!  But at last I slept, and dreamed of old school-days, until the warm beams of the sun, and the rising bell at Salem House awoke me.  As none of my old companions could still be there, I had no wish to linger, so I crept away from the wall and struck out into the dusty Dover road.

That day I got through three and twenty miles, and at night I passed over the bridge at Rochester, footsore and tired, eating bread as I walked.  There were plenty of signs, “Lodgings for Travellers,” but I sought no shelter, fearing to spend the few pence I had.  Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning, and I felt that I could go only a short distance that day.  I took off my jacket, and went into a shop, where I exchanged it finally for one and fourpence.  For threepence I refreshed myself completely, and limped seven miles further.  I slept under another haystack, after washing my blistered feet in a stream, and went on in rather better spirits, coming at last to the bare wide downs near Dover.  I then began to inquire of everyone I met, about my aunt, but no one knew her, and finally, when the morning was far spent, in despair I went into a little shop to ask once more.  I spoke to the clerk, but a young woman on whom he was waiting, took the inquiry to herself.

“My mistress?” she said.  “What do you want with her, boy?”

On my replying that I wished to see Miss Trotwood, the young woman told me to follow her.  I needed no second permission, though by this time my legs shook under me.  Soon we came to a neat little cottage with cheerful bow-windows, in front of it a gravelled court, full of flowers.

“This is Miss Trotwood’s,” said the young woman, and then she hurried in, and left me standing at the gate.  My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition, my hat was crushed and bent, my shirt and trousers stained and torn, my hair had known no comb or brush since I left London, my face, neck, and hands, from unaccustomed exposure, were burnt to a berry-brown.  From head to foot I was powdered with dust.  In this plight I waited to introduce myself to my formidable aunt.

As I waited, there came out of the house a lady with a handkerchief tied over her cap, a pair of gardening gloves on her hands, and carrying a great knife.  I knew her immediately, for she stalked out of the house exactly as my mother had so often described her stalking up our garden at home.

“Go away!” said Miss Betsey, shaking her head, and waving her knife.  “Go along!  No boys here!”