Was ever such a wretched boy as I ?" And he buried his face in his hands and gave himself over to his misery.
Suddenly in the quiet morning air there came to his ears a wonderful sound, up from the valley, where, in the sun, shone the towers and steeples of London town.
It was the sound of distant bells, and as the boy listened, it came clearer and clearer, and seemed to fill the air with the very voice for which he had but a minute since been longing.

But what a strange voice and what a strange story the bells told!-- Turn again, Whittington, Thrice Lord Mayor of London! Over and over again they said the same words.

Over and over again Dick persuaded himself he was dreaming, yet felt sure he was awake.

"Turn again!" that was plain enough, and he could believe it, even though Bow Bells said it.

But--"Thrice Lord Mayor of London!" what could that mean?
That was never meant for the poor ill-used scullery boy of Master Fitzwarren, the mercer in the Minories! And yet what could be more distinct than the voice of those bells?
He sprang from his seat, turned his face in the direction of that wonderful sound, and ran.