Free Escape From Home by Avi Page B

may.”
    Mr. Pickler cleared his throat, as if to clear away something disagreeable. “Was there one particular happenstance, sir, that prompted the boy’s departure?”
    Lord Kirkle rose quickly, moved toward the mantel, and stared once more into the fire. His face was hidden from Mr. Pickler.
    â€œIt was a punishment,” his lordship said without turning around. “The result of some dispute with his elder brother. They … they do not get along.”
    â€œWas it a … specific punishment, my lord?”
    Lord Kirkle felt heavy. Old. Troubled. Absentmindedly, his fingers traced the family motto below the mantel.
    Â 
    F OR C OUNTRY , G LORY —F OR F AMILY , H ONOR
    Â 
    Lord Kirkle drew himself up, turned, and looked Mr. Pickler in the eyes. “Yes … the punishment,” he said in the posture and voice he used when addressing his peers in the House of Lords. “Yes. Laurence was confined to his room for tea.”
    Mr. Pickler blinked in surprise. It was hard for him to keep from smiling. “My lord,” he said, “I am moved by the confidence you show in me. But what you have said permits me to confirm what I said, to wit, young people lack good judgment. Your information encourages me to say that I will have your son home in a very short time.”
    â€œDo you think so?”
    â€œMy lord, you have honored me with your complete confidence. I shall repay it by bringing your boy back.”

C older and colder. Laurence, without overcoat or scarf, was chilled to the bone. He was ravenous too. When the fog had lifted, it only gave way to a dreary freezing rain.
    From somewhere in the darkness, he heard the muted tinkling of a bell. It sounded to him like the mocking laughter of an elf. Once Laurence searched, he discovered it came from a small tentlike structure in which stood an old man selling muffins from a great wicker hamper. Gray lumps of knobby dough, they nonetheless smelled wonderful to Laurence. He approached timidly.
    The muffin man, a toothless, weak-chinned fellow, peeped out from multiple wraps of shawls, capes, and mufflers. The wraps made his eyes appear, in the light of a street lamp, like two raisins atop a cinnamon bun. Now and again he struck the little bell that dangled from the tent’s edge.
    Laurence stopped just beyond the pool of lamplight. He said, “Can you tell me where the railway station is?”
    The old man considered Laurence thoughtfully while flicking bits of muffin into his mouth. “Which one?” he finally said.
    Laurence’s heart sank. “Is there more than one?”
    â€œBless me,” returned the muffin man. “’Course there is.”
    â€œI want to get to Liverpool.”
    The man gazed at Laurence. “Shippin’ out, are yer?”
    Laurence nodded curtly. “I’m … I’m going to America.” He found the word still strange to say out loud.
    The muffin man offered up a wide gummy smile. “To make yer fortune, I suppose, like Dick Wittington. And well yer might, says I. If I were younger, I’d join yer. What yer wants is Euston Station.”
    â€œEuston Station,” Laurence repeated, trying to fix it in his mind. “Can you tell me where that is?”
    â€œBless me, yer a bit innocent to be aimin’ so far. And yer got a fancy way of talking, yer ’ave. Just where yer from?”
    â€œSomewhere,” Laurence answered evasively.
    â€œRight-o,” said the muffin man with a sly smile. “Yer don’t want to let on, do yer? As for Euston Station, ’tisn’t that far neither, no more than a mile or two along Tottenham Court Road, which is but three streets over.” He pointed in the general direction. “Yer can’t miss it. Big as a blessed cathedral, it is. Now then, did yet want to buy a muffin against yer going?”
    Laurence eyed the bread hungrily. The thought of food made his mouth water. He started