There are many dreary
           and dingy rows
               of ugly houses
           in certain parts of London,
         but there certainly
            could not
                  be any
                      row more ugly
                          or dingier than Philibert Place.

    There were stories
         that it
            had once been more attractive,
           but that
            had been so long ago
             that no one
                  remembered the time.

    It stood back
           in its gloomy,
         narrow strips of uncared-for,
         smoky gardens,
           whose broken iron railings
            were supposed
                  to protect it
                       from the surging
                     traffic of a road
              which was always
                  roaring with the rattle
                       of busses,
         cabs,
           drays,
         and vans,
           and the passing of people
             who were shabbily
                  dressed and looked
             as if
                 they were either
                      going to hard work or
                          coming from it,
         or hurrying to see
             if they
                could find some of it
                      to do
                          to keep themselves
                               from going hungry.

    The brick fronts
           of the houses
        were blackened with smoke,
           their windows
            were nearly all dirty and
                  hung with dingy curtains,
         or had no curtains
               at all;
        the strips of ground,
           which had once
            been intended to grow
                 flowers in,
         had been
            trodden down into bare earth
             in which
                 even weeds
                    had forgotten to grow.

    One of them
        was used
               as a stone-cutter's yard,
           and cheap monuments,
         crosses,
           and slates
            were set out for sale,
         bearing inscriptions beginning with
           "Sacred to the Memory of."

    Another had piles
           of old lumber
         in it,
        another exhibited second-hand
                     furniture,
         chairs with unsteady legs,
           sofas with horsehair stuffing
               bulging out of holes
                   in their covering,
         mirrors with blotches
              or cracks in them.

    The insides of the houses
        were as gloomy
               as the outside.

    They were all exactly alike.

    In each
           a dark entrance passage
         led to narrow stairs
              going up to bedrooms,
           and to narrow
               steps going
                   down to a basement kitchen.

    The back bedroom
          looked out on small,
           sooty,
         flagged yards,
           where thin cats quarreled,
         or sat
               on the coping
                   of the brick
               walls hoping
             that sometime
               they might feel the sun;
        the front rooms
              looked over the noisy road,
           and through their windows
            came the roar
                   and rattle of it.

    It was shabby and cheerless
           on the brightest days,
         and on foggy
              or rainy ones it
            was the
                   most forlorn place in London.

    At least that was
         what one boy thought as
             he stood
                   near the iron railings
                  watching the passers-by
                       on the morning
         on which this story begins,
           which was
               also the morning after
             he had been brought
                   by his father
                  to live
                       as a lodger
                           in the back sitting-room
                               of the house No. 7.

    He was a boy
           about twelve years old,
         his name was Marco Loristan,
         and he
            was the kind
                   of boy people
                  look at a second time
             when they
                  have looked at him once.

    In the first place,
           he was
               a very big boy
          --tall for his years,
           and with a
              particularly strong frame.

    His shoulders
        were broad
               and his arms and legs
            were long and powerful.

    He was quite used to
         hearing people say,
           as they glanced at him,
         "What a fine,
               big lad!"

    And then
         they always
              looked again at his face.

    It was
           not an English face
          or an American one,
           and was
               very dark in coloring.

    His features were strong,
           his black hair
            grew on his head
                   like a mat,
         his eyes
            were large and deep set,
           and looked out between thick,
         straight,
           black lashes.

    He was
           as un- English a boy
               as one
        could imagine,