Near the end of my fourteenth year I was apprenticed to @Valentine, @King & @Co., cotton importers, @Liverpool, as a "pair of legs." My father had died suddenly, leaving me and his property in the possession of my stepmother and my guardian. It was in regard to their urgent advice that I left my home in @London (with little hesitation, since my life there had never been happy) to study the art of making money. When I arrived at the scene of my expected triumphs, I was assigned to the somewhat humble position of errand boy. In common with other boys who performed a similar service for the firm, I was known as "a pair of legs." Housing of a rather basic nature had been set aside for me in the western outskirts of the city near the banks of the @Mersey. I was slow to make friends, and my evenings were spent reading a number of story books that I had brought with me from London.
One night, not long after the beginning of my new life in Liverpool, I was lying in bed listening to the wind and rain beating over the housetops and driving against the windows, when suddenly there came a loud rap at my door.
"Who's there?" I demanded, jumping out of bed.
I heard no answer, so I repeated my question, standing there and listening for a moment. I still heard nothing, however, except for the wind and the rain. Lighting a candle and dressing myself quickly, I opened the door. I could just make out the figure of a bent old man standing in the hallway, when a gust of wind suddenly blew out the candle. The door leading to the street was open, and the old man was probably a straggler come to beg me for shelter or for something to eat. As I relit the candle, he entered my room and stood facing me, but he did not speak. His clothes were dripping and he was blinking at me with strange, gleaming eyes. His hair was snow-white, and as I looked into his face the deathly white color of it frightened me. His general appearance was more than startling; it was downright spooky.
"What can I do for you?" I asked.
Much to my surprise, he made no reply, but with a look of pain and great anxiety sank into a chair. Then he reached into his pocket and drew a letter which he held out to me. The envelope was wet and dirty. It was addressed to @Kendric Lane, North Old Broad street, London, England.
