Ramage did not know. Once more he was the searcher. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. ’ His friend held it out of the way. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label.
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