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Chapter XXXIII. Edward as King.
Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on London
Bridge--he was more so when he got out of it. He had but little money
when he got in, none at all when he got out. The pickpockets had
stripped him of his last farthing.
But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he did not go at
his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange his
campaign.
What would the boy naturally do? Where would he naturally go? Well
--argued Miles--he would naturally go to his former haunts, for that is the
instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken, as well as of
sound ones. Whereabouts were his former haunts? His rags, taken
together with the low villain who seemed to know him and who even claimed
to be his father, indicated that his home was in one or another of the
poorest and meanest districts of London. Would the search for him be
difficult, or long? No, it was likely to be easy and brief. He would
not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a big
crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find his poor little
friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining itself with
pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be proclaiming himself King,
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