But what terrified me was the number of boys like myself who formed part of the procession, and who, every one of them as I imagined, were hurrying towards Hawk Street.
My uncle had told me that I should find Hawk Street turning out at the end of the street in which the station stood, and this was precisely the direction in which these terrible boys were all going.
How knowing they all looked, and how confident! There was not one of them, I was certain, but was more intelligent than I, and quicker at figures.

How I hated them as they swaggered along, laughing and joking with one another, looking familiarly on the scene around them, crossing the road in the very teeth of the cab-horses, and not one of them caring or thinking a bit about me.

What chance had I among all these?
There was not much conceit left in me, I assure you, as I followed meekly in their wake towards Hawk Street that morning.
My uncle's directions had been so simple that I had never calculated on having any difficulty in finding my destination.

But it's all very well in a quiet country town to find one street that turns out of another, but in London, between nine and ten in the morning, it's quite a different matter.

At least so I found it.