Remembering that he had wanted to start searching for Patrick, he jumped up and looked about. Neither Mr. Grout nor Mr. Drabble was there. Wondering if they were in the lobby, he hurried downstairs. A fair number of men were sitting about smoking and talking, but there was no sign of his friends. Frustrated, the boy stepped onto the street. “Want your boots blackened?” a voice called to him. Laurence turned about. There was something almost comical about the shoe-shine boy who spoke to him, nearly hidden as he was in a large greatcoat that all but reached his toes. His cap, moreover, was pulled so low that it was hard for Laurence to see his face. “I beg your pardon?” Laurence replied. “I said your boots could use some blacking. How about it?” “No, thank you,” Laurence said, and turned to look again along the street. He felt a pull on his arm. “Hey, fellah,” Jeb said. “You got a funny way of talking. Where you from?” “England,” Laurence replied. “That’s pretty far, isn’t it?”
