Chapter 6

           Ispentthenightonashelfofthehillside,intheleeofaboulderwheretheheathergrewlongandsoft.Itwasacoldbusiness,forIhadneithercoatnorwaistcoat.ThesewereinMrTurnbull’skeeping,aswasScudder’slittlebook,mywatchand—worstofall—mypipeandtobaccopouch.Onlymymoneyaccompaniedmeinmybelt,andabouthalfapoundofgingerbiscuitsinmytrouserspocket.

           Isuppedoffhalfthosebiscuits,andbywormingmyselfdeepintotheheathergotsomekindofwarmth.Myspiritshadrisen,andIwasbeginningtoenjoythiscrazygameofhide-and-seek.SofarIhadbeenmiraculouslylucky.Themilkman,theliteraryinnkeeper,SirHarry,theroadman,andtheidioticMarmie,wereallpiecesofundeservedgoodfortune.SomehowthefirstsuccessgavemeafeelingthatIwasgoingtopullthethingthrough.

           MychieftroublewasthatIwasdesperatelyhungry.WhenaJewshootshimselfintheCityandthereisaninquest,thenewspapersusuallyreportthatthedeceasedwas“well-nourished”.Irememberthinkingthattheywouldnotcallmewell-nourishedifIbrokemyneckinabog-hole.Ilayandtorturedmyself—forthegingerbiscuitsmerelyemphasizedtheachingvoid—withthememoryofallthegoodfoodIhadthoughtsolittleofinLondon.TherewerePaddock’scrispsausagesandfragrantshavingsofbacon,andshapelypoachedeggs—howoftenIhadturnedupmynoseatthem!Therewerethecutletstheydidattheclub,andaparticularhamthatstoodonthecoldtable,forwhichmysoullusted.