“Thank you for your most kind offer, sir, but I should like to walk,” answered Newman.
“I’m going to Lock Haven,” said the man, as if he had not quite heard Newman’s declination.
“I do not mind long morning rambles. In point of fact, I am rather fond of them. Good day, sir.” Newman nodded to indicate that the parley was over and resumed his steps.
The old man sat and thought for a moment and then shrugged and said, “Suit yourself,” and steamed away.
After the gentleman had gone, Newman halted himself and took a few deep, calming breaths. He had pictured the man grabbing at him as had the men in the Ryersbach parlour — trying their best to hold and detain him, for what purpose Newman knew not, and possessed of hard looks that did not put his concerns to rest by any measure. Newman vowed in the midst of his narrow escape never to be trusting again, always to be vigilant, and never again to place himself into the custody of anyone who might wish to do him harm.
The boy renewed his steps but soon stumbled over a jutting rock and well nigh fell. He was tired and his feet were dragging themselves shufflingly upon the ground, and the hardship of his present situation was not in the least mitigated by the wearing of trowsers much too long for his short legs — trowsers that continued to unfold their makeshift cuffs, only to be trod upon and tripped over to break his stride and nearly break his neck.
I must have some new clothes, thought Newman. These clothes of Chad’s, which were given me, are much too big. I look like a harlequin clown.
Newman stopped himself every now and then to place his hand upon his stomach as if this action would somehow ameliorate his pangs of hunger. He was tired and weak and wanted now to sit upon a log and rest himself, but he feared that in doing so he might never rise up again. So onward he trudged along the side of the road, regretting now for the first time his decision to leave Dingley Dell.
This was a strange new feeling that had taken hold of Newman, and arriving in the thick of his travails, it fascinated him. He thought of what had made him depart Dingley Dell in the first place: he had been different from the other boys at the two schools he had attended. There were those who had said that he wasn’t very bright, that he was “walking trouble” and would never improve. He had always looked to the ridges and wondered if there were those who lived beyond them who were more like he was: the imp who had grown into a bit of a hellcat, and who was destined to mature into a fully-fledged delinquent and then finally find himself, at the unfortunate close of his life, a permanently-installed inmate of the Dingley Gaol. Perhaps, he thought, there was some truth to the statement made by the greengrocer from whom he had once purloined a plum, that he had a “criminal nature in embryo.” For had he not stolen Mr. Chowser’s greatest treasure, his grandfather’s watch? Had Newman not stuffed his knapsack with as much food as he was able to pilfer from the Chowser pantry? Embryo? Come, come now. The miscreant was already hatched!
Yet Newman Trimmers didn’t feel like a miscreant. He felt like a boy — a lost boy who wanted only one thing: to return to his mother and father and, yes, even to his sister. Though she nettled him, Alice was still a part of that family that he so sorely missed after all the lonely days he’d spent in this strange and threatening foreign land.
As Newman was walking along deliberating upon his present situation, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a very red vehicle, open-topped like a Dinglian barouche, approaching him at great speed. It rode very low to the ground and as it sped past, it put a buzz into his ears. The vehicle gave him something else as well — a present of sorts: a bulging paper bag, tossed out by one of its boisterous passengers. The discarded bag landed not so very far from Newman’s feet. It had writing on it. It said “Burger King. Home of the Whopper.” Newman bent down and retrieved the bag. He opened it to discover a container inside, which caused his heart to leap. It had half a sandwich in it! The bread was in the shape of a flat round bun and the meat encased within had been flattened quite successfully into a patty. There was a layer of thin cheese melted upon the meat, and there were greens and slices of tomato stuffed inside as well. Newman smelt the sandwich and agreed with his nose that it should be quite edible. Also within the bag was a closed cardboard tumbler with dark liquid spilling from it and moistening the sides of the bag so that it nearly dropt away from his grasp in its sodden weakness. Newman devoured the strange meat sandwich, which tasted good to him, though it was quite salty. He devoured, as well, the savoury fried food sticks he also found inside; these tasted like potatoes, but only a little. Newman drank some of the dark liquid that swam amongst melting rimes of ice, and liked the sweetness that met his tongue.
Having fortified himself with the contents of the paper bag of food, my nephew improved his steps and marched more vigourously toward the place called Jersey Shore, which was gained by late afternoon.
It was not a shore, as it turned out, but a town — a town with a most misleading name.
Along the high street Newman strolled, marveling at the strange architecture and the colourful placards hanging all about and all the people who were drest in similitude to members of the Ryersbach family and to all the people he had seen in the fast-moving horseless conveyances, each clad dully and simply in colours that Newman had never seen worn in his native Dingley Dell, for there were no such dyes available there.
The first thing that I must do, thought Newman to himself, is to find a pawn shop so that I can put money into my pocket, which will afford me a full meal and a change of clothes and perhaps a bed for the night. Newman knew not whether there was such a shop in the Outland — a place where one could go to take money in exchange for leaving a thing of value behind. He looked for the three balls that he knew to be the pawnbroker’s symbol in the Dell and found none. However, what he did find was a jewellry shop, and inside, a proprietor who very much liked the make of the watch Newman presented.
“Nice. Quite nice!” remarked the man who said that his name was Phillips. The jeweller was an elderly man who was, in spite of his age, quite spry and light in the step. He took up the watch, and affixing the watchmaker’s glass to his eye to give the treasure a close inspection, popped the watch open to peer at its intricate workings. “Gold hunting watch. Engine turned. Jewelled in four holes. Escape movement. Horizontal lever. Did you know that you can set it to give a little tinkle every fifteen minutes?”
“Yes, I knew that,” answered Newman (but really he did not). “It is my choice not to set it in such a way.”
“I haven’t seen a pocketwatch like this in years. It’s rare to find this kind of craftsmanship anymore.”
“Except in Switzerland,” said Newman, attempting to shew himself duly informed about his valuable possession.
The old man nodded. He had a thick mane of white hair and now combed one hand through it. “That’s right. You know your classic Genevas. My son collected bugs at your age. I collected stamps. You collect pocketwatches and I do take my hat off to you.” (Though the man was not, in fact, wearing a hat.) “How old are you?”
“I’m eleven years of age.”
“So young to take up such a serious hobby.”
Newman nodded, acknowledging the compliment.
“Now why do you want to depart with this watch, I wonder?”
The man removed his eyeglass to take a better look at the boy who had entered his shop to do business with him.
Newman could not think of what to say other than to take a little bit of the truth and use it to his advantage: “I should like to use the money to buy myself some new clothes.”