He crawled across to where the crutch lay—the old broom, cut down, that Lady Talbot had covered with black velvet for him.
"And now," he said, "I must get to Gravesend." He looked out of the window at the dismal, sordid street. "I wonder," he said, "if Deptford was ever really like it was in my dream—the gardens and the clean river and the fields?"
He got out of the house when no one was looking, and went off down the street.
"Clickety-clack" went the crutch on the dusty pavement.
His back ached; his lame foot hurt; his "good" leg was tired and stiff, and his heart, too, was very tired. About this time, in the dream he had chosen to awaken from, for the sake of Beale, a bowl of porridge would be smoking at the end of a long oak table, and a great carved chair be set for a little boy who was not there.
Dickie strode on manfully, but the pain in his back made him feel sick.
"I don't know as I can do it," he said.
Then he saw the three gold balls above the door of the friendly pawnbroker.
He looked, hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and went in.
"Hullo!" said the pawnbroker, "here we are again. Want to pawn the rattle, eh?"