Escape From Home by Avi Page B

mother’s, and he had often visited her home.
    He dashed up to the iron fence, clutched the bars, and tried to see in. “Hello!” he called. A snarling dog charged the fence and began to bark furiously. Laurence backed away in haste.
    A carriage for hire burst out of the fog. Laurence sprang to the curb and tried to hail it by holding up a hand. He had seen his brother do so. But this driver, high in his seat, did not so much as glance in his direction. He whipped up his horses and clattered by, leaving Laurence spattered with mud and humiliation.
    â€œBlockhead!” Laurence called after the carriage. “Dunce!” Though he tried to wipe himself clean, he did not accomplish much. And rubbing his right cheek caused him to cry out with pain.
    Struggling to be brave, to think calmly, Laurence sat down on a curb beneath a street lamp. He chided himself for being so uncertain. Here he was, merely starting on his journey. But, oh, he wished he knew how far America was and how long it would take him to get there.
    First, he had to find Liverpool—wherever that was. He was aware that many faraway places—even within England—were best reached by railroad, so he made up his mind to find a railway station.
    Having a clear goal served to soothe him. Seeking further reassurance, he patted his jacket pocket, where he’d stashed his money. He took out the wad of bills and counted it carefully. One thousand pounds. He hoped it was enough.
    After stuffing the bills back into safekeeping, Laurence looked up. A few feet away from him—like some ghost fashioned from the very fog itself—stood a man.
    At first glance he appeared to be an old fellow, stooped with age, leaning on a makeshift crutch. An unkempt gray beard dangled from his chin. Over his rather broad shoulders was draped a tattered army greatcoat whose ragged hem hung to the tops of broken boots. The cap he wore, loose and ill fitting, was pulled so low it almost covered a patched eye. But the good eye—piercingly bright—was staring directly at Laurence.
    â€œYer there! Laddie!” the man called.
    Not sure how to respond, Laurence ventured, “Were you addressing me?”
    â€œI was,” the man said. “And wot I’m wantin’ to know is this: Wot’s all that ready clink yer got there!” With a hop and step, his greatcoat flapping about him so he looked like a crow with a lame leg, the man lurched forward.
    Laurence sprang up and backed away.
    The man leaned over his cane and leered wickedly. “’Onest up, laddie,” he sneered, “yer didn’t prig that money fair an’ square, now did yer?”
    Laurence noted that the man’s lower lip was bruised and puffy, as if he had been in a fight. And indeed, there was a palpable air of violence about him.
    â€œI—I—,” the boy stammered. “I got it from my father.”
    â€œDid yer now? Well, then, I’d as soon be yer governor as anyone. So, yer best ’and that money over to me.” With a sudden movement, he whipped up his crutch and flung it—javelinlike—straight at Laurence’s head.
    Laurence saw the crutch coming just in time. He ducked, whirled, and fled. Nor did he stop running until he had passed ten streets. When finally he did look back—gasping for breath—the old man with the eye patch appeared to be gone. The fog, however, was too thick for Laurence to be sure.
    â€œNot fair …,” he murmured. “Not fair….”
    Ever more anxious, Laurence pressed on, hoping he would recognize a building, a sign, anything that would tell him where he was. Houses—those that he could see—were smaller here. More people and carriages were passing on the streets. No one, however, paid the slightest attention to him. It was all very strange and shocking. He might have been invisible.
    The farther Laurence traveled, the more upset he became. He veered from one