The Prince and the Pauper

Chapter 29

Hendon was soon absorbed in thought. There were questions of high

import to be answered. What should he do? Whither should he go?

Powerful help must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his

inheritance and remain under the imputation of being an impostor

besides. Where could he hope to find this powerful help? Where,

indeed! It was a knotty question. By-and-by a thought occurred

to him which pointed to a possibility--the slenderest of slender

possibilities, certainly, but still worth considering, for lack of

any other that promised anything at all. He remembered what old

Andrews had said about the young King's goodness and his generous

championship of the wronged and unfortunate. Why not go and try

to get speech of him and beg for justice? Ah, yes, but could so

fantastic a pauper get admission to the august presence of a

monarch? Never mind--let that matter take care of itself; it was

a bridge that would not need to be crossed till he should come to

it. He was an old campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and

expedients: no doubt he would be able to find a way. Yes, he

would strike for the capital. Maybe his father's old friend Sir

Humphrey Marlow would help him--'good old Sir Humphrey, Head

Lieutenant of the late King's kitchen, or stables, or something'--

Miles could not remember just what or which. Now that he had

something to turn his energies to, a distinctly defined object to

accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression which had

settled down upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he raised

his head and looked about him. He was surprised to see how far he

had come; the village was away behind him. The King was jogging

along in his wake, with his head bowed; for he, too, was deep in

plans and thinkings. A sorrowful misgiving clouded Hendon's new-

born cheerfulness: would the boy be willing to go again to a city

where, during all his brief life, he had never known anything but

ill-usage and pinching want? But the question must be asked; it

could not be avoided; so Hendon reined up, and called out--

"I had forgotten to inquire whither we are bound. Thy commands,

my liege!"

"To London!"

Hendon moved on again, mightily contented with the answer--but

astounded at it too.

The whole journey was made without an adventure of importance.

But it ended with one. About ten o'clock on the night of the 19th

of February they stepped upon London Bridge, in the midst of a

writhing, struggling jam of howling and hurrahing people, whose

beer-jolly faces stood out strongly in the glare from manifold

torches--and at that instant the decaying head of some former duke

or other grandee tumbled down between them, striking Hendon on the

elbow and then bounding off among the hurrying confusion of feet.

So evanescent and unstable are men's works in this world!--the

late good King is but three weeks dead and three days in his

grave, and already the adornments which he took such pains to

select from prominent people for his noble bridge are falling. A

citizen stumbled over that head, and drove his own head into the

back of somebody in front of him, who turned and knocked down the

first person that came handy, and was promptly laid out himself by

that person's friend. It was the right ripe time for a free

fight, for the festivities of the morrow--Coronation Day--were

already beginning; everybody was full of strong drink and

patriotism; within five minutes the free fight was occupying a

good deal of ground; within ten or twelve it covered an acre of

so, and was become a riot. By this time Hendon and the King were

hopelessly separated from each other and lost in the rush and

turmoil of the roaring masses of humanity. And so we leave them.