The Road to Barnet
You are Oliver Twist. You have walked seventy miles. For seven days, you have trekked through the cold winter wind, sleeping under hay-ricks and begging for dry crusts of bread at cottage doors. Your feet are bleeding, your legs tremble beneath you, and you are covered in the dust of the high road.
Finally, you limp into the little town of Barnet. The sun is rising, revealing the empty street. You sink onto a doorstep, too weak to stand. You are alone in the world, and London—the great city where they say no lad of spirit need want—is still miles away.
As you sit crouching on the step, a boy roughly your own age crosses the street and stares at you. He is one of the queerest-looking boys you have ever seen. He has all the airs and manners of a man, wears a coat that reaches his heels, and has a hat balancing precariously on his head.
"Hullo, my covey!" says the stranger. "What's the row?"