But the muffin man, as well as the muffin he had given him, was long gone. Once he reached Euston Station, the boy thought, he would find warmth and food. He did not care what it cost; he would get some. But his exhaustion was growing. He was sore. He felt bouts of dizziness. The welt on his face throbbed. Despite the cold, penetrating drizzle—which sometimes turned to snow—flashes of sweating heat burst upon him only to be followed by chills so sharp his teeth chattered. Blowing on his hands to keep them warm, he would have given anything to be in his own bed. Yet over and over again he told himself he had no choice—he must escape from London. Laurence hardly knew which he feared most, thieves or the police. To protect himself against the former, he kept one hand thrust deep in his jacket pocket, fist tight around the money that remained. The image of the man with the eye patch, the one who had robbed him, kept rising before him. Even so, he pushed on, pausing only to step into an alley and—to his shame—relieve himself.
