Henry Clark stared blankly as that beef bone drew an arc through the air and landed several meters away in the grass in front of him. He fixed his gaze on the meat bone, not daring to move. As long as this group of constables didn’t leave, he had absolutely no intention of showing his face in front of them.

Otherwise, if even one of those dozen or so men took a dislike to him and came over to give him a kick, it would be enough to leave him half dead. In his current frail little body, he couldn’t withstand any blow. If he took a kick, tomorrow he might be in so much pain he couldn’t even move a finger. The day after, he and Big Ben would both starve to death out here in the wilderness for lack of food.

Half a year of wandering had taught him that this was a risk he absolutely could not take.

Ben Carter, no longer held down by Henry Clark, sobered up a bit and poked half his head out from beside the grass nest. But this time he saw clearly—it was a group of constables. Big Ben knew the danger and didn’t dare move recklessly. He just sniffed desperately at the aroma of wine and meat, trying to satisfy his craving.

Chief Officer Thompson, having eaten and drunk his fill, didn’t say much else and led the other well-fed constables back on the road. Chief Officer Thompson didn’t bother with the bill; a few young constables casually tossed some loose silver onto the table.

The constables shouted, drew their knives, found the path, and set off in pursuit of the bandits’ trail.

The old innkeeper saw that the silver on the table wasn’t enough—barely enough to break even—and, afraid to say more, could only curse his bad luck in his heart before tidying up the tables, chairs, bowls, and chopsticks in the pavilion. The busboy busied himself collecting the leftover wine, meat, tea, and the meat bones and scraps on the ground, preparing to take them back to feed the pigs. In these years of drought, grain and meat were scarce; not a bit could be wasted, especially for small business owners like them.

Ben Carter was watching, nearly drooling.

Henry Clark held Big Ben back, not letting him go over. They had been here for almost half a month and already knew that the old innkeeper and the busboy were both stingy types who wouldn’t spare a scrap of wine or meat. If the two of them went over now, the old innkeeper would probably come at them with a filthy broom and drive them away.

Fortunately, the busboy was only cleaning inside the pavilion and didn’t go out to the messy grass outside. All the valuables were loaded onto an ox cart, and the old innkeeper and the busboy drove the cart slowly down the post road into the distance.

Henry Clark saw the ox cart leave, and finally darted quickly toward the tangled grass, parting the dry, messy stalks to search for the beef bone discarded by Chief Officer Thompson.

Soon, Henry Clark found a beef bone as thick as half his small forearm, with some uneaten shreds of beef still clinging to it, giving off a tempting aroma. He stretched out and licked the meat fibers stuck to the bone.

Ben Carter also crawled over slowly, his face covered in mud, pitifully staring at the meat bone in Henry Clark’s hand.

Henry Clark brought the meat bone to his mouth, but hesitated. He knew in his heart that compared to himself, Big Ben needed this meat bone more. After being injured by a wild dog last night, Big Ben had been feeling terrible and could barely eat today. Now that he wanted to eat meat, it was a good sign—maybe eating meat would help him recover. Back in his hometown, hunters who got injured would always eat meat to regain their strength.

Of the companions from his hometown, only he and Big Ben were left. He would never let Big Ben die.

“Here, Big Ben, you were bitten by a wild dog yesterday, so you need to nourish yourself. I’ll go see if there’s anything else left to eat on the ground.”

Henry Clark stuffed the meat bone into Ben Carter’s hand. With that, he went into the pavilion, and while it was not yet completely dark, carefully searched the ground inside and outside the pavilion, occasionally picking up a grain or two of rice from the muddy ground and popping them into his mouth.

Ben Carter took the bone, his eyes reddening and his nose stinging.

“Henry Jr.!”

He wiped his runny nose with a piece of blackened, tattered burlap, and silently gnawed on the beef bone. This wasn’t the first time. Of the four or five companions who had come out to look for food, for more than half a year, it was always the oldest, Henry Jr., who took care of them. But Henry Jr. couldn’t take care of everyone, and in the end, several still died.

He, Big Ben, didn’t even know how many times he’d almost died. Many times, he’d become a burden and thought it might be better to just die. But if he died, only Henry Jr. would be left—what would Henry Jr. do alone? Henry Jr. wouldn’t let him die, either. All he could do was try his best not to be a burden, to recover quickly, and help look for food.

At night, the moon hung high.

Henry Clark lay in the crude bamboo hut, spreading a layer of dry grass over the cold, muddy ground. He also blocked a small hole in the corner of the hut with a big stone and some branches. Last night, that old wild dog had come in through this little hole and bitten Big Ben. After eating the beef bone, Big Ben was much better that night. In the hut’s only broken water jar, they found half a bowl of leftover water; Big Ben drank some and was already fast asleep on the grass mat.

Henry Clark lay on the dry grass, his small hands behind his head, silently thinking about what the constables had said.

“The Herbal Hall in Zhuqi County is openly recruiting a batch of herb-picking boys under the age of twelve!”

Zhuqi County—he and Big Ben had been there two months ago, stayed for several days, but couldn’t remain and had to escape.

Because there was a gang of local beggars in the county town who monopolized all the begging spots and places with any scraps, and were very hostile to outsiders, driving them away.