It was a long way, and the bag was heavy.  His first attempt at barter was alarming, for the pawnbroker, who had just been cautioned by the police, was in such a severe and uncomfortable state of morals, that the boy quickly snatched up his bundle again and left.  Sorely troubled he walked hastily along, until, in a small bye street, his glance fell upon a baker of mild and benevolent aspect, standing behind the counter of his shop.

“If you please, sir,” said Tommy, entering, and depositing his bag on the counter, “have you got any cast-off clothes you don’t want?”

The baker turned to a shelf, and selecting a stale loaf cut it in halves, one of which he placed before the boy.

“I don’t want bread,” said Tommy desperately; “but mother has just died, and father wants mourning for the funeral.  He’s only got a new suit with him, and if he can change these things of mother’s for an old suit, he’d sell his best ones to bury her with.”

He shook the articles out on the counter, and the baker’s wife, who had just come into the shop, inspected them rather favourably.

“Poor boy, so you’ve lost your mother,” she said, turning the clothes over.  “It’s a good skirt, Bill.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tommy dolefully.

“What did she die of?” inquired the baker.

“Scarlet fever,” said Tommy, tearfully, mentioning the only disease he knew.

“Scar—­Take them things away,” yelled the baker, pushing the clothes on to the floor, and following his wife to the other end of the shop.  “Take ’em away directly, you young villain.”

His voice was so loud, his manner so imperative, that the startled boy, without stopping to argue, stuffed the clothes pell-mell into the bag again and departed.  A farewell glance at the clock made him look almost as horrified as the baker.

“There’s no time to be lost,” he muttered, as he began to run; “either the old man’ll have to come in these or else stay where he is.”

He reached the house breathless, and paused before an unshaven man in time-worn greasy clothes, who was smoking a short clay pipe with much enjoyment in front of the door.

“Is Cap’n Bross here?” he panted.

“He’s upstairs,” said the man, with a leer, “sitting in sackcloth and ashes, more ashes than sackcloth.  Have you got some clothes for him?”

“Look here,” said Tommy.  He was down on his knees with the mouth of the bag open again, quite in the style of the practised hawker.  “Give me an old suit of clothes for them.  Hurry up.  There’s a lovely frock.”

“Blimey,” said the man, staring, “I’ve only got these clothes.  Wot d’yer take me for?  A dook?”

“Well, get me some somewhere,” said Tommy.  “If you don’t the cap’n ’ll have to come in these, and I’m sure he won’t like it.”

“I wonder what he’d look like,” said the man, with a grin.  “Damme if I don’t come up and see.”