Day and night he wandered into all sorts of places: the worse
they looked the more attractive he found them. It became almost a
craze with him. He could not pass a dirty court or low-browed
archway. He might be there. Or he might have been there. Or it
was such a place as he would choose for shelter. He knew to what
such a life as his must have tended.
At first he was attracted only by tall elderly men. Such a man he
would sometimes follow till his following made him turn and demand
his object. If there was no suspicion of Scotch in his tone,
Falconer easily apologized. If there was, he made such replies as
might lead to some betrayal. He could not defend the course he was
adopting: it had not the shadow of probability upon its side. Still
the greatest successes the world has ever beheld had been at one
time the greatest improbabilities! He could not choose but go on,
for as yet he could think of no other way.
Neither could a man like Falconer long confine his interest to this
immediate object, especially after he had, in following it, found
opportunity of being useful. While he still made it his main object
to find his father, that object became a centre from which radiated
a thousand influences upon those who were as sheep that had no
shepherd. He fell back into his old ways at Aberdeen, only with a
boundless sphere to work in, and with the hope of finding his father
to hearten him. He haunted the streets at night, went into all
places of entertainment, often to the disgust of senses and soul,
and made his way into the lowest forms of life without introduction
or protection.
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