One bleak morning, a day or two after the above conversation, Charley was slowly pacing Fleet Street, wondering where he could go next, what do. A situation, advertised in that morning's paper, had brought him up, post haste. As usual, it turned out a failure: to be successful, the applicant must put down fifty pounds in cash. So that chance was gone: and there was Charles, uncertain, and miserable.

"Halloa, Raynor! Is it you?"

A young stripling about his own age had run against him. At the first moment Charles did not know him: but recollection flashed on his mind. It was Peter Hartley: a lad who had been a schoolfellow of his in Somersetshire.

"I am going to get my dinner," said Hartley, after a few sentences had passed. "Will you come and take some with me?"

Too thankful for the offer, Charles followed him

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