Jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms, gives a shuffling nod. Mr Guppy then throws him a penny, and Mrs Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house. But, before he goes down-stairs, Mr Snagsby loads him with some broken meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms.

So, Mr Chadband — of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonder he should go on for any length of time uttering such abominable nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever leave off, having once the audacity to begin — retires into private life until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jo moves on, through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge where he finds a baking stony corner, wherein to settle to his repast.

And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the great Cross on the summit of St Paul’s Cathedral, glittering above a red and violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy’s face one might suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confusion of the great, confused city; so golden, so high up, so far out of his reach. There he sits, the sun going down, the river running fast, the crowd flowing by him in two streams — everything moving on to some purpose and to one end — until he is stirred up, and told to “move on” too.