That same day, at supper, seeing that Richard was apparently in good humor, Desmond ventured to make a suggestion.
"Dick," he said frankly, "don't you think it would be better for all of us if I went away? You and I don't get along very well, and perhaps I was not cut out for a farmer."
Richard grunted, and Mrs. Burke looked apprehensively from one to the other.
"What's your idea?" asked Richard.
"Well, I had thought of a writership in the East India Company's service, or better still, a cadetship in the Company's forces."
"Hark to him!" exclaimed Richard, with a scornful laugh. "A second Clive, sink me! And where do you suppose the money is to come from?"
"Couldn't you advance me a part of what is to come to me when I am twenty-one?"
"Not a penny, I tell you at once, not a penny. 'Tis enough to be saddled with you all these years. You may think yourself lucky if I can scrape together a tenth of the money that'll be due to you when you're twenty-one. That's the dead hand, if you like; why father put that provision in his will it passes common sense to understand. No, you'll have to stay and earn part of it, though in truth you'll never be worth your keep."
"That depends on the keeper," retorted Desmond, rather warmly.
"No insolence, now. I repeat, I will not advance one penny! Go and get some money out of the squire, that is so precious fond of you."
"Richard, Richard!" said his mother anxiously.
"Mother, I'm the boy's guardian. I know what it is. He has been crammed with nonsense by that idle knave at the Four Alls. Look'ee, my man, if I catch you speaking to him again, I'll flay your skin for you."
"Why shouldn't I?" replied Desmond. "I saw you speaking to him."
"Hold your tongue, sir. The dog accosted me. I answered his question and passed on. Heed what I say: I'm a man of my word."
Desmond said no more. But before he fell asleep that night he had advanced one step further towards freedom. His request had met with the refusal he had anticipated. He could hope for no pecuniary assistance; it remained to take the first opportunity of consulting Diggle. It was Diggle who had suggested India as the field for his ambition; and the suggestion would hardly have been made if there were great obstacles in the way of its being acted on. Desmond made light of his brother's command that he should cut Diggle's acquaintance; it seemed to him only another act of tyranny, and his relations with Richard were such that to forbid a thing was to provoke him to do it.
His opportunity came next day. Late in the afternoon he met Diggle, as he had done many times before, walking in the fields, remote from houses. When Desmond caught sight of him, he was sauntering along, his eyes bent upon the ground, his face troubled. But he smiled on seeing Desmond.
"Well met, friend," he said; "leni perfruor otio--which is as much as to say--I bask in idleness. Well, now, I perceive in your eye that you have been meditating my counsel. 'Tis well, friend Desmond, and whereto has your meditation arrived?"
"I have thought over what you said. I do wish to get away from here; I should like to go to India; indeed, I asked my brother to advance a part of some money that is to come to me, so that I might obtain service with the Company; but he refused."
"And you come to me for counsel. 'Tis well done, though I trow your brother would scarce be pleased to hear of it."
"He forbade me to speak to you."
"Egad, he did! Haec summa est! What has he against me?--a question to be asked. I am a stranger in these parts: that is ill; and buffeted by fortune: that is worse; and somewhat versed in humane letters: that, to the rustic intelligence, is a crime. Well, my lad, you have come to the right man at the right time. You are acquainted with my design shortly to return to the Indies--a rare field for a lad of mettle. You shall come with me."
"But are you connected with the Company? None other, I believed, has a right to trade."
"The Company! Sure, my lad, I am no friend to the Company, a set of stiff-necked, ignorant, grasping, paunchy peddlers who fatten at home on the toil of better men. No, I am an adventurer, I own it; I am an interloper; and we interlopers, despite the Company's monopoly, yet contrive to keep body and soul together."
"Then I should not sail to India on a Company's ship?"
"Far from it, indeed. But let not that disturb you, there are other vessels. And for the passage--why, sure I could find you a place as supercargo or some such thing; you would thus keep the little money you have and add to it, forming a nest egg which, I say it without boasting, I could help you to hatch into a fine brood. I am not without friends in the Indies, my dear boy; there are princes in that land whom I have assisted to their thrones; and if, on behalf of a friend, I ask of them some slight thing, provided it be honest--'tis the first law of friendship, says Tully, as you will remember, to seek honest things for our friends--if, I say, on your behalf, I proffer some slight request, sure the nawabs will vie to pleasure me, and the foundation of your fortune will be laid."
Desmond had not observed that, during this eloquent passage, Diggle had more than once glanced beyond him, as though his mind were not wholly occupied with his oratorical efforts. It was therefore something of a shock that he heard him say in the same level tone:
"But I perceive your brother approaching. I am not the man to cause differences between persons near akin; I will therefore leave you; we will have further speech on the subject of our discourse."
He moved away. A moment after, Richard Burke came up in a towering passion.
"You brave me, do you?" he cried. "Did I not forbid you to converse with that vagabond?"
"You have no right to dictate to me on such matters," said Desmond hotly, facing his brother.
"I've no right, haven't I?" shouted Richard. "I've a guardian's right to thrash you if you disobey me, and by George! I'll keep my promise."
He lifted the riding whip, without which he seldom went abroad, and struck at Desmond. But the boy's blood was up. He sprang aside as the thong fell; it missed him, and before the whip could be raised again he had leaped towards his brother. Wrenching the stock from his grasp, Desmond flung the whip over the hedge into a green-mantled pool, and stood, his cheeks pale, his fists clenched, his eyes flaming, before the astonished man.
"Coward!" he cried, "'tis the last time you lay hands on me."
Recovered from his amazement at Desmond's resistance, Richard, purple with wrath, advanced to seize the boy. But Desmond, nimbly evading his clutch, slipped his foot within his brother's, and with a dexterous movement tripped him up, so that he fell sprawling, with many an oath, on the miry road. Before he could regain his feet, Desmond had vaulted the hedge and set off at a run towards home. Diggle was nowhere in sight.
The die was now cast. Never before had Desmond actively retaliated upon his brother, and he knew him well enough to be sure that such an affront was unforgivable. The farm would no longer be safe for him. With startling suddenness his vague notions of leaving home were crystallized into a resolve. No definite plan formed itself in his mind as he raced over the fields. He only knew that the moment for departure had come, and he was hastening now to secure the little money he possessed and to make a bundle of his clothes and the few things he valued before Richard could return.
Reaching the Grange, he slipped quietly upstairs, not daring to face his mother, lest her grief should weaken his resolution, and in five minutes he returned with his bundle. He stole out through the garden, skirted the copse that bounded the farm inclosure, and ran for half a mile up the lane until he felt that he was out of reach. Then, breathless with haste, quivering with the shock of this sudden plunge into independence, he sat down on the grassy bank to reflect.
What had he done? It was no light thing for a boy of his years, ignorant of life and the world, to cut himself adrift from old ties and voyage into the unknown. Had he been wise? He had no trade as a standby; his whole endowment was his youth and his wits. Would they suffice? Diggle's talk had opened up an immense prospect, full of color and mystery and romance, chiming well with his daydreams. Was it possible that, sailing to India, he might find some of his dreams come true?
Could he trust Diggle, a stranger, by his own admission an adventurer, a man who had run through two fortunes already? He had no reason for distrust; Diggle was well educated, a gentleman, frank, amiable. What motive could he have for leading a boy astray?
Mingled with Desmond's Irish impulsiveness there was a strain of caution derived from the stolid English yeomen, his forebears on the maternal side. He felt the need, before crossing his Rubicon, of taking counsel with someone older and wiser--with a tried friend. Sir Willoughby Stokes, the squire, had always been kind to him. Would it not be well to put his case to the squire and follow his advice? But he durst not venture to the Hall yet. His brother might suspect that he had gone there and seize him, or intercept him on the way. He would wait. It was the squire's custom to spend a quiet hour in his own room long after the time when other folk in that rural neighborhood were abed. Desmond sometimes sat with him there, reading or playing chess. If he went up to the Hall at nine o'clock he would be sure of a welcome.
The evening passed slowly for Desmond in his enforced idleness. At nine o'clock, leaving his bundle in a hollow tree, he set off toward the Hall, taking a short cut across the fields. It was a dark night, and he stopped with a start as, on descending a stile overhung by a spreading sycamore, he almost struck against a person who had just preceded him.
"Who's that?" he asked quickly, stepping back a little: it was unusual to meet anyone in the fields at so late an hour.
"Be that you, Measter Desmond?"
"Oh, 'tis you, Dickon. What are you doing this way at such an hour? You ought to have been abed long ago."
"Ay, sure, Measter Desmond; but I be goin' to see squire," said the old man, apparently with some hesitation.
"That's odd. So am I. We may as well walk together, then--for fear of the ghosts, eh, Dickon?"
"I binna afeard o' ghosts, not I. True, 'tis odd I be goin' to see squire. I feel it so. Squire be a high man, and I ha' never dared lift up my voice to him oothout axen. But 'tis to be. I ha' summat to tell him, low born as I be; ay, I mun tell him, cost what it may."
"Well, he's not a dragon. I have something to tell him too--cost what it may."
There was silence for a space. Then Dickon said tremulously:
"Bin it a great matter, yourn, sir, I make bold to axe?"
"That's as it turns out, Dickon. But what is it with you, old man? Is aught amiss?"
"Not wi' me, sir, not wi' me, thank the Lord above. But I seed ya, Measter Desmond, t'other day, in speech win that--that Diggle as he do call hisself, and--and I tell ya true, sir, I dunna like the looks on him; no, he binna a right man; an' I were afeard as he med ha' bin fillin' yer head wi' fine tales about the wonders o' the world an' all."
"Is that all, Dickon? You fear my head may be turned, eh? Don't worry about me."
"Why, sir, ya may think me bold, but I do say this. If so be ya gets notions in yer head--notions o' goin' out along an' seein' the world an' all, go up an' axe squire about it. Squire he done have a wise head; he'll advise ya for the best; an' sure I bin he'd warn ya not to have no dealin's win that Diggle, as he do call hissen."
"Why, does the squire know him, then?"
"'Tis my belief squire do know everything an' everybody. Diggle he med not know, to be sure, but if so be ya say 'tis a lean man, wi' sharp nose, an' black eyes like live coals, an' a smilin' mouth--why, squire knows them sort, he done, and wouldna trust him not a ell. But maybe ya'd better go on, sir: my old shanks be slow fur one so young an' nimble."
"No hurry, Dickon. Lucky the squire was used to London hours in his youth, or we'd find him abed. See, there's a light in the Hall; 'tis in the strong room next to the library; Sir Willoughby is reckoning up his rents maybe, though 'tis late for that."
"Ay, ya knows the Hall, true. Theer be a terrible deal o gowd an' silver up in that room, fur sure, more 'n a aged man like me could tell in a week."
"The light is moving; it seems Sir Willoughby is finishing up for the night. I hope we shall not be too late."
But at this moment a winding of the path brought another face of the Hall into view.
"Why, Dickon," exclaimed Desmond, "there's another light; 'tis the squire's own room. He cannot be in two places at once; 'tis odd at this time of night. Come, stir your stumps, old man."
They hurried along, scrambling through the hedge that bounded the field, Desmond leaping, Dickon wading the brook that ran alongside the road. Turning to the left, they came to the front entrance to the Hall, and passed through the wicket gate into the grounds. They could see the squire's shadow on the blind of the parlor; but the lighted window of the strong room was now hidden from them.
Stepping in that direction, to satisfy a strange curiosity he felt, Desmond halted in amazement as he saw, faintly silhouetted against the sky, a ladder placed against the wall, resting on the sill of the strong room. His surprise at seeing lights in two rooms, in different wings of the house, so late at night, changed to misgiving and suspicion. He hastened back to Dickon.
"I fear some mischief is afoot," he said. Drawing the old man into the shade of the shrubbery, he added: "Remain here; do not stir until I come for you, or unless you hear me call."
Leaving Dickon in trembling perplexity and alarm, he stole forward on tiptoe towards the house.
At the foot of the wall lay a flower bed, now bare and black, separated by a gravel path from a low shrubbery of laurel. Behind this latter Desmond stole, screened from observation by the bushes. Coming to a spot exactly opposite the ladder, he saw that it rested on the sill of the library window, which was open. The library itself was dark, but there was still a dull glow in the next room. At the foot of the ladder stood a man.
The meaning of it all was plain. The large sum of money recently received by Sir Willoughby as rents had tempted someone to rob him. The robber must have learned that the money was kept in the strong room; and it argued either considerable daring or great ignorance to have timed his visit for an hour when anyone familiar with the squire's habits would have known that he would not yet have retired to rest.
Desmond was about to run round to the other side of the house and rouse the squire, when the dim light in the strong room was suddenly extinguished. Apparently the confederate of the man below had secured his booty and was preparing to return. Desmond remained fixed to the spot, in some doubt what to do. He might call to Dickon and make a rush on the man before him, but the laborer was old and feeble, and the criminal was no doubt armed. A disturber would probably be shot, and though the shot would alarm the household, the burglars would have time to escape in the darkness. Save Sir Willoughby himself, doubtless every person in the house was by this time abed and asleep.
It seemed best to Desmond to send Dickon for help while he himself still mounted guard. Creeping silently as a cat along the shrubbery, he hastened back to the laborer, told him in a hurried whisper of his discovery, and bade him steal round to the servants' quarters, rouse them quietly, and bring one or two to trap the man at the foot of the ladder while others made a dash through the library upon the marauder in the strong room. Dickon, whose wits were nimbler than his legs, understood what he was to do and slipped away, Desmond returning to his coign of vantage as noiselessly as he came.
He was just in time to see that a heavy object, apparently a box, was being lowered from the library window on to the ladder. Sliding slowly down, it came to the hands of the waiting man; immediately afterwards the rope by which it had been suspended was dropped from above, and the dark figure of a man mounted the sill.
He already had one leg over, preparing to descend, when Desmond, with a sudden rush, dashed through the shrubs and sprang across the path. The confederate was stooping over the booty; his back was towards the shrubbery; at the snapping of twigs and the crunching of the gravel he straightened himself and turned. Before he was aware of what was happening, Desmond caught at the ladder by the lowest rung, and jerked it violently outwards so that its top fell several feet below the windowsill, resting on the wall out of reach of the man above.
Desmond heard a smothered exclamation break from the fellow, but he could pay no further attention to him, for, as he rose from stooping over the ladder, he was set upon by a burly form. He dodged behind the ladder. The man sprang after him, blindly, clumsily, and tripped over the box. But he was up in a moment, and, reckless of the consequences of raising an alarm, was fumbling for a pistol, when there fell upon his ears a shout, the tramp of hurrying feet, and the sound of another window being thrown open.
With a muffled curse he swung on his heel, and made to cross the gravel path and plunge into the shrubbery. But Desmond was too quick for him. Springing upon his back, he caught his arms, thus preventing him from using his pistol. He was a powerful man, and Desmond alone would have been no match for him; but before he could wriggle himself entirely free, three half-clad men servants came up with a rush, and in a trice he was secured.
In the excitement of these close-packed moments Desmond had forgotten the other man, whom he had last seen with his leg dangling over the windowsill. He looked up now; the window was still open; the ladder lay exactly where he had jerked it; evidently the robber had not descended.
"Quick!" cried Desmond. "Round to the door! The other fellow will escape!"
He himself sprinted round the front of the house to the door by which the servants had issued, and met the squire hobbling along on his stick, pistol in hand.
"We have got one, sir!" cried Desmond. "Have you seen the other?"
"What--why--how many villains are there?" replied the squire, who, between amazement and wrath, was scarcely able to appreciate the situation.
"There was a man in the library; he did not come down the ladder; he may be still in the house."
"The deuce he is! Desmond, take the pistol, and shoot the knave like a dog if you meet him."
"I'll guard the door, Sir Willoughby. They are bringing the other man round. Then we'll go into the house and search. He can't get out without being seen if the other doors are locked."
"Locked and barred. I did it myself an hour ago. I'll hang the villain."
In a few moments the servants came up with their captive and the box, old Dickon following. Only their figures could be seen: it was too dark to distinguish features.
"You scoundrel!" cried the squire, brandishing his stick. "You'll hang for this.
"Take him into the house. In with you all.
"You scoundrel!"
"An' you please, Sir Willoughby, 'tis--" began one of the servants.
"In with you, I say," roared the squire. "I'll know how to deal with the villain."
The culprit was hustled into the house, and the group followed, Sir Willoughby bringing up the rear. Inside he barred and locked the door, and bade the men carry their prisoner to the library. The corridors and staircase were dark, but by the time the squire had mounted on his gouty legs, candles had been lighted, and the face of the housebreaker was for the first time visible. Two servants held the man; the others, with Desmond and Dickon, looked on in amazement.
"Job Grinsell, on my soul and body!" cried the squire. "You villain! You ungrateful knave! Is this how you repay me? I might have hanged you, you scoundrel, when you poached my game; a word from me and Sir Philip would have seen you whipped before he let his inn to you; but I was too kind; I am a fool; and you--by, gad, you shall hang this time."
The squire's face was purple with anger, and he shook his stick as though then and there he would have wrought chastisement on the offender. Grinsell's flabby face, however, expressed amusement rather than fear.
"Bless my soul!" cried the squire, suddenly turning to his men, "I'd forgotten the other villain. Off with you; search for him; bring him here."
Desmond had already set off to look for Grinsell's accomplice. Taper in hand he went quickly from room to room; joined by the squire's servants, he searched every nook and cranny of the house, examining doors and windows, opening cupboards, poking at curtains--all in vain. At last, at the end of a dark corridor, he came upon an open window some ten feet above the ground. It was so narrow that a man of ordinary size must have had some difficulty in squeezing his shoulders through; but Desmond was forced to the conclusion that the housebreaker had sprung out here, and by this time had made good his escape. Disappointed at his failure, he returned with the servants to the library.
"We can't find him, Sir Willoughby," said Desmond, as he opened the door.
To his surprise, Grinsell and Dickon were gone; no one but the squire was in the room, and he was sitting in a big chair, limp and listless, his eyes fixed upon the floor.
"We can't find him," repeated Desmond.
The squire looked up.
"What did you say?" he asked, as though the events of the past half-hour were a blank. "Oh, 'tis you, Desmond, yes; what can I do for you?"
Desmond was embarrassed.
"I--we have--we have looked for the other villain, Sir Willoughby," he stammered. "We can't find him."
"Ah! 'Twas you gave the alarm. Good boy; zeal, excellent; but a little mistake; yes, Grinsell explained; a mistake, Desmond."
The squire spoke hurriedly, disconnectedly, with an embarrassment even greater than Desmond's.
"But, sir," the boy began, "I saw--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the old man. "I know all about it. But Grinsell's explanation--yes, I know all about it. I am obliged to you, Desmond; but I am satisfied with Grinsell's explanation; I shall go no further in the matter."
He groaned and put his hand to his head.
"Are you ill, Sir Willoughby?" asked Desmond anxiously.
The squire looked up; his face was an image of distress. He was silent for a moment; then said slowly:
"Sick at heart, Desmond, sick at heart. I am an old man--an old man."
Desmond was uncomfortable. He had never seen the squire in such a mood, and had a healthy boy's natural uneasiness at any display of feeling.
"You see that portrait?" the squire went on, pointing wearily with his stick at the head of a young man done in oils. "The son of my oldest friend--my dear old friend Merriman. I never told you of him. Nine years ago, Desmond--nine years ago, my old friend was as hale and hearty a man as myself, and George was the apple of his eye. They were for the king--God save him!-and when word came that Prince Charles was marching south from Scotland, they arranged secretly with a party of loyal gentlemen to join him. But I hung back; I had not their courage; I am alive, and I lost my friend."
His voice sank, and, leaning heavily upon his stick, he gazed vacantly into space. Desmond was perplexed and still more ill at ease. What had this to do with the incidents of the night? He shrank from asking the question.
"Yes, I lost my friend," the squire continued. "We had news of the prince; he had left Carlisle; he was moving southwards, about to strike a blow for his father's throne. He was approaching Derby. George Merriman sent a message to his friends, appointing a rendezvous: gallant gentlemen, they would join the Stuart flag! The day came, they met, and the minions of the Hanoverian surrounded them. Betrayed!--poor, loyal gentlemen, betrayed by one who had their confidence and abused it--one of my own blood, Desmond--the shame of it! They were tried, hanged--hanged! It broke my old friend's heart; he died; 'twas one of my blood that killed him."
Again speech failed him. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he said:
"But 'tis late, boy; your brother keeps early hours. I am not myself tonight; the memory of the past unnerves me. Bid me good night, boy."
Desmond hesitated, biting his lips. What of the motive of his visit? He had come to ask advice; could he go without having mentioned the subject that troubled him? The old man had sunk into a reverie; his lips moved as though he communed with himself. Desmond had not the heart to intrude his concerns on one so bowed with grief.
"Good night, Sir Willoughby!" he said.
The squire paid no heed, and Desmond, vexed, bewildered, went slowly from the room.
At the outer door he found Dickon awaiting him.
"The squire has let Grinsell go, Dickon," he said; "he says 'twas all a mistake."
"If squire says it, then 't must be," said Dickon slowly, nodding his head.
"We'n better be goin' home, sir."
"But you had something to tell Sir Willoughby?"
"Ay, sure, but he knows it--knows it better'n me."
"Come, Dickon, what is this mystery! I am in a maze; what is it, man?"
"Binna fur a aged, poor feller like me to say. We'n better go home, sir."
Nothing that Desmond said prevailed upon Dickon to tell more, and the two started homewards across the fields.
Some minutes afterwards they heard the sound of a horse's hoofs clattering on the road to their left, and going in the same direction. It was an unusual sound at that late hour, and both stopped instinctively and looked at each other.
"A late traveler, Dickon," said Desmond.
"Ay, maybe a king's post, Measter Desmond," replied the old man.
Without more words they went on till they came to a lane leading to the laborer's cottage.
"We part here," said Desmond. "Dickon, good night!"
"Good night to you, sir!" said the old man. He paused; then, in a grave, earnest, quavering voice, he added: "The Lord Almighty have you in his keeping, Measter Desmond, watch over you night and day, now and evermore."
And with that he hobbled down the lane.
At nine o'clock that night Richard Burke left the Grange--an unusual thing for him--and walked quickly to the Four Alls. The inn was closed, and shutters darkened the windows; but, seeing a chink of light between the folds, the farmer knocked at the door. There was no answer. He knocked again and again, grumbling under his breath. At length, when his patience was almost exhausted, a window above opened, and, looking up, Mr. Burke dimly saw a head.
"Is that you, Grinsell?" he asked.
"No, massa."
"Oh, you're the black boy, Mr. Diggle's servant. Is your master in?"
"No, massa."
"Well, come down and open the door. I'll wait for him."
"Massa said no open door for nuffin."
"Confound you, open at once! He knows me; I'm a friend of his; open the door!"
"Massa said no open door for nobody."
The farmer pleaded, stormed, cursed, but Scipio Africanus was inflexible. His master had given him orders, and the boy had learned, at no little cost, that it was the wisest and safest policy to obey. Finding that neither threats nor persuasion availed, Burke took a stride or two in the direction of home; then he halted, pondered for a moment, changed his mind, and began to pace up and down the road.
His restless movements were by and by checked by the sound of footsteps approaching. He crossed the road, stood in the shadow of an elm and waited. The footsteps drew nearer; he heard low voices, and now discerned two dark figures against the lighter road. They came to the inn and stopped. One of them took a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock.
"'Tis you at last," said Burke, stepping out from his place of concealment. "That boy of yours would not let me in, hang him!"
At the first words Diggle started and swung round, his right hand flying to his pocket; but, recognizing the voice almost immediately, he laughed.
"'Tis you, my friend," he said. "Multa de nocte profectus es. But you've forgot all your Latin, Dick. What is the news, man? Come in."
"The bird is flitting, Sim, that's all. He has not been home. His mother was in a rare to-do. I pacified her; told her I'd sent him to Chester to sell oats--haw, haw! He has taken some clothes and gone. But he won't go far, I trow, without seeing you, and I look to you to carry out the bargain."
"Egad, Dick, I need no persuasion. He won't go without me, I promise you that. I've a bone to pick with him myself--eh, friend Job?"
Grinsell swore a hearty oath. At this moment the silence without was broken by the sound of a trotting horse.
"Is the door bolted?" whispered Burke. "I mustn't be seen here."
"Trust me fur that," said Grinsell. "But no one will stop here at this time o' night."
But the three men stood silent, listening. The sound steadily grew louder; the horse was almost abreast of the inn; it was passing--but no, it came to a halt; they heard a man's footsteps, and the sound of the bridle being hitched to a hook in the wall. Then there was a sharp rap at the door.
"Who's there?" cried Grinsell gruffly.
"Open the door instantly," said a loud, masterful voice.
Burke looked aghast.
"You can't let him in," he whispered.
The others exchanged glances.
"Open the door," cried the voice again. "D'you hear, Grinsell? At once!--or I ride to Drayton for the constables."
Grinsell gave Diggle a meaning look.
"Slip out by the back door, Mr. Burke," said the innkeeper. "I'll make a noise with the bolts so that he cannot hear you."
Burke hastily departed, and Grinsell, after long, loud fumbling with the bolts, threw open the door and gave admittance to the squire.
"Ah, you are here both," said Sir Willoughby, standing in the middle of the floor, his riding whip in his hand.
"Now, Mr.--Diggle, I think you call yourself, I'm a man of few words, as you know. I have to say this, I give you till eight o'clock tomorrow morning; if you are not gone, bag and baggage, by that time, I will issue a warrant. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," said Diggle with his enigmatical smile.
"And one word more. Show your face again in these parts and I shall have you arrested. I have spared you twice for your mother's sake. This is my last warning.
"Grinsell, you hear that, too?"
"I hear 't," growled the man.
"Remember it, for, mark my words, you'll share his fate."
The squire was gone.
Grinsell scowled with malignant spite; Diggle laughed softly.
"Quanta de spe decidi!" he said, "which in plain English, friend Job, means that we are dished--utterly, absolutely. I must go on my travels again. Well, such was my intention; the only difference is, that I go with an empty purse instead of a full one. Who'd have thought the old dog would ha' been such an unconscionable time dying!"
"Gout or no gout, he's good for another ten year," growled the innkeeper.
"Well, I'll give him five. And, with the boy out of the way, maybe I'll come to my own even yet. The young puppy!"
At this moment Diggle's face was by no means pleasant to look upon.
"Fate has always had a grudge against me, Job. In the old days, I bethink me, 'twas I that was always found out. You had many an escape."
"Till the last. But I've come out of this well." He chuckled. "To think what a fool blood makes of a man! Squire winna touch me, 'cause of you. But it must gall him; ay, it must gall him."
"I--list!" said Diggle suddenly. "There are footsteps again. Is it Burke coming back? The door's open, Job."
The innkeeper went to the door and peered into the dark. A slight figure came up at that moment--a boy, with a bundle in his hand.
"Is that you, Grinsell? Is Mr. Diggle in?"
"Come in, my friend," said Diggle, hastening to the door. "We were just talking of you. Come in; 'tis a late hour; si vespertinus subito--you remember old Horace? True, we haven't a hen to baste with Falernian for you, but sure friend Job can find a wedge of Cheshire and a mug of ale. Come in."
And Desmond went into the inn.
One warm October afternoon, some ten days after the night of his visit to the Four Alls, Desmond was walking along the tow path of the Thames, somewhat north of Kingston. As he came to the spot where the river bends round towards Teddington, he met a man plodding along with a rope over his shoulder, hauling a laden hoy.
"Can you tell me the way to the Waterman's Rest?" asked Desmond.
"Ay, that can I," replied the man without stopping. "'Tis about a quarter mile behind me, right on waterside. And the best beer this side o' Greenwich."
Thanking him, Desmond walked on. He had not gone many yards farther before there fell upon his ear, from some point ahead, the sound of several rough voices raised in chorus, trolling a tune that seemed familiar to him. As he came nearer to the singers, he distinguished the words of the song, and remembered the occasion on which he had heard them before: the evening of Clive's banquet at Market Drayton--the open window of the Four Alls, the voice of Marmaduke Diggle.
"Sir William Norris, Masulipatam"--these were the first words he caught; and immediately afterwards the voices broke into the second verse:
And at the conclusion there was a clatter of metal upon wood, and then one voice, loud and rotund, struck up the first verse once more--"Says Billy Norris, Masulipatam"--The singer was in the middle of the stave when Desmond, rounding a privet hedge, came upon the scene. A patch of greensward, sloping up from a slipway on the riverside; a low, cozy-looking inn of red brick covered with a crimson creeper; in front of it a long deal table, and seated at the table a group of some eight or ten seamen, each with a pewter tankard before him. To the left, and somewhat in the rear of the long table, was a smaller one, at which two seamen, by their garb a cut above the others, sat opposite each other, intent on some game.
Desmond's attention was drawn towards the larger table. Rough as was the common seaman of George the Second's time, the group here collected would have been hard to match for villainous looks. One had half his teeth knocked out, another a broken nose; all bore scars and other marks of battery.
Among them, however, there was one man marked out by his general appearance and facial expression as superior to the rest. In dress he was no different from his mates; he wore the loose blouse, the pantaloons, the turned-up cloth hat of the period. But he towered above them in height; he had a very large head, with a very small squab nose, merry eyes, and a fringe of jet-black hair round cheeks and chin.
When he removed his hat presently he revealed a shiny pink skull, rising from short, wiry hair as black as his whiskers. Alone of the group, he wore no love locks or greased pigtail. In his right hand, when Desmond first caught sight of him, he held a tankard, waving it to and fro in time with his song. He had lost his left hand and forearm, which were replaced by an iron hook projecting from a wooden socket, just visible in his loose sleeve.
He was halfway through the second stanza when he noticed Desmond standing at the angle of the hedge a few yards away. He fixed his merry eyes on the boy, and, beating time with his hook, went on with the song in stentorian tones:
The others took up the chorus, and finally brought their tankards down upon the deal with a resounding whack.
"Ahoy, Mother Wiggs, more beer!" shouted the big man.
Desmond went forward.
"Is this the Waterman's Rest?"
"Ay, ay, young gen'leman, and a blamed restful place it is, too, fit for watermen what en't naught but landlubbers, speaking by the book, but not fit for the likes of us jack tars. Eh, mateys?"
His companions grunted acquiescence.
"I have a message for Mr. Toley; is he here?"
"Ay, that he is. That's him at the table yonder.
"Mr. Toley, sir, a young gen'leman to see you."
Desmond advanced to the smaller table. The two men looked up from their game of dominoes. One was a tall, lean fellow, with lined and sunken cheeks covered with iron-gray stubble, a very sharp nose, and colorless eyes; the expression of his features was melancholy in the extreme. The other was a shorter man, snub-nosed, big-mouthed; one eye was blue, the other green, and they looked in contrary directions. His hat was tilted forward, resting on two bony prominences above his eyebrows.
"Well?" said Mr. Toley, the man of melancholy countenance.
"I have a message from Captain Barker," said Desmond. "I am to say that he expects you and the men at Custom House Quay next Wednesday morning, high tide at five o'clock."
Mr. Toley lifted the tankard at his left hand, drained it, smacked his lips, then said in a hollow voice:
"Bulger, Custom House Quay, Wednesday morning, five o'clock."
A grunt of satisfaction and relief rolled round the company, and in response to repeated cries for more beer a stout woman in a mob cap and dirty apron came from the inn with a huge copper can, from which she proceeded to fill the empty tankards.
"Is the press still hot, sir?" asked Mr. Toley.
"Yes. Four men, I was told, were hauled out of the Good Intent yesterday."
"And four bad bargains for the king," put in the second man, whose cross glances caused Desmond no little discomfort.
At this moment Joshua Wiggs, the innkeeper, came up, carrying three fowling pieces.
"There be plenty o' ducks today, mister," he said.
"Then we'll try our luck," said Mr. Toley, rising.
"Thank 'ee, my lad," he added to Desmond. "You'll take a sup with the men afore you go?
"Bulger, see to the gentleman."
"Ay, ay, sir.
"Come aboard, matey."
He made a place for Desmond at his side on the bench, and called to Mother Wiggs to bring a mug for the gentleman. Meanwhile, Mr. Toley and his companion had each taken a fowling piece and gone away with the landlord. Bulger winked at his companions, and when the sportsmen were out of earshot he broke into a guffaw.
"Rare sport they'll have! I wouldn't be in Mr. Toley's shoes for something. What's a cock-eyed man want with a gun in his hand, eh, mateys?"
Desmond felt somewhat out of his element in his present company; but having reasons of his own for making himself pleasant, he said, by way of opening a conversation:
"You seem pleased at the idea of going to sea again, Mr. Bulger."
"Well, we are and we en't, eh, mateys? The Waterman's Rest en't exactly the kind of place to spend shore leave; it en't a patch on Wapping or Rotherhithe. And to tell 'ee true, we're dead sick of it. But there's reasons; there mostly is; and the whys and wherefores, therefores and becauses, I dessay you know, young gen'lman, acomin' from Captain Barker."
"The press gang?"
"Ay, the press is hot in these days. Cap'n sent us here to be out o' the way, and the orficers to look arter us. Not but what 'tis safer for them too; for if Mr. Sunman showed his cock-eyes anywhere near the Pool, he'd be nabbed by the bailiffs, sure as he's second mate o' the Good Intent. Goin' to sea's bad enough, but the Waterman's Rest and holdin' on the slack here's worse, eh, mateys?"
"Ay, you're right there, Bulger."
"But why don't you like going to sea?" asked Desmond.
"Why? You're a landlubber, sir--meanin' no offense--or you wouldn't axe sich a foolish question. At sea 'tis all rope's end and salt pork, with Irish horse for a tit-bit."
"Irish horse?"
"Ay. That's our name for it. 'Cos why? Explain to the gen'lman, mateys."
With a laugh the men began to chant--
"That's the why and wherefore of it," added Bulger. "Cooks call it salt beef, same as French mounseers don't like the sound of taters an' calls 'em pummy detair; but we calls it Irish horse, which we know the flavor. Accordingly, notwithstandin' an' for that reason, if you axe the advice of an old salt, never you go to sea, matey."
"That's unfortunate," said Desmond, with a smile, "because I expect to sail next Wednesday morning, high tide at five o'clock."
"Binks and barnacles! Be you a-goin' to sail with us?"
"I hope so."
"Billy come up! You've got business out East, then?"
"Not yet, but I hope to have. I'm going out as supercargo."
"Oh! As supercargo!"
Bulger winked at his companions, and a hoarse titter went the round of the table.
"Well," continued Bulger, "the supercargo do have a better time of it than us poor chaps. And what do Cap'n Barker say to you as supercargo, which you are very young, sir?"
"I don't know Captain Barker."
"Oho! But I thought as how you brought a message from the captain?"
"Yes, but it came through Mr. Diggle."
"Ah! Mr. Diggle?"
"A friend of mine--a friend of the captain. He has arranged everything."
"I believe you, matey. He's arranged everything. Supercargo! Well, to be sure! Never a supercargo as I ever knowed but wanted a man to look arter him, fetch and carry for him, so to say. How would I do, if I might make so bold?"
"Thanks," said Desmond, smiling as he surveyed the man's huge form. "But I think Captain Barker might object to that. You'd be of more use on deck, in spite of--"
He paused, but his glance at the iron hook had not escaped Bulger's observant eye.
"Spite of the curlin' tongs, you'd say. Bless you, spit it out; I en't tender in my feelin's."
"Besides," added Desmond, "I shall probably make use of the boy who has been attending to me at the Goat and Compasses--a clever little black boy of Mr. Diggle's."
"Black boys be hanged! I never knowed a Sambo as was any use on board ship. They howls when they're sick, and they're allers sick, and never larns to tell a marlinspike from a belayin' pin."
"But Scipio isn't one of that sort. He's never sick, Mr. Diggle says; they've been several voyages together, and Scipio knows a ship from stem to stern."
"Scipio, which his name is? Uncommon name, that."
There was a new tone in Bulger's voice, and he gave Desmond a keen and, as it seemed, a troubled look.
"Yes, it is strange," replied the boy, vaguely aware of the change of manner. "But Mr. Diggle has ways of his own."
"This Mr. Diggle, now; I may be wrong, but I should say--yes, he's short, with bow legs and a wart on his cheek?"
"No, no; you must be thinking of some one else. He is tall, rather a well-looking man; he hasn't a wart, but there is a scar on his brow, something like yours."
"Ah, I know they sort; a fightin' sort o' feller, with a voice like--which I say, like a nine pounder?"
"Well, not exactly; he speaks rather quietly; he is well educated, too, to judge by the Latin he quotes."
"Sure now, a scholard. Myself, I never had no book larnin' to speak of; never got no further than pothooks an' hangers!"
He laughed as he lifted his hook. But he seemed to be disinclined for further conversation. He buried his face in his tankard, and when he had taken a long pull, set the vessel on the table and stared at it with a preoccupied air. He seemed to have forgotten the presence of Desmond. The other men were talking among themselves, and Desmond, having by this time finished his mug of beer, rose to go on his way.
"Goodby, Mr. Bulger," he said; "we shall meet again next Wednesday."
"Ay, ay, sir," returned the man.
He looked long after the boy as he walked away.
"Supercargo!" he muttered. "Diggle! I may be wrong, but--"
Desmond had come through Southwark and across Clapham and Wimbledon Common, thus approaching the Waterman's Rest from the direction of Kingston. Accustomed as he was to long tramps, he felt no fatigue, and with a boy's natural curiosity he decided to return to the city by a different route, following the river bank. He had not walked far before he came to the ferry at Twickenham. The view on the other side of the river attracted him: meadows dotted with cows and sheep, a verdant hill with pleasant villas here and there; and, seeing the ferryman resting on his oars, he accosted him.
"Can I get to London if I cross here?" he asked.
"Sure you can, sir. Up the hill past Mr. Walpole his house; then you comes to Isleworth and Brentford, and a straight road through Hammersmith village--a fine walk, sir, and only a penny for the ferryman."
Desmond paid his penny and crossed. He sauntered along up Strawberry Hill, taking a good look at the snug little house upon which Mr. Horace Walpole was spending much money and pains. Wandering on, and preferring bylanes to the high road, he lost his bearings, and at length, fearing that he was going in the wrong direction, he stopped at a wayside cottage to inquire the way.
He was farther out than he knew. The woman who came to the door in answer to his knock said that, having come so far, he had better proceed in the same direction until he reached Hounslow, and then strike into the London road and keep to it.
Desmond was nothing loath. He had heard of Hounslow and those notorious "Diana's foresters," Plunket and James Maclean--highwaymen who a few years before had been the terror of night travelers across the lonely Heath. There was a fascination about the scene of their exploits. So he trudged on, feeling now a little tired, and hoping to get a lift in some farmer's cart that might be going towards London.
More than once as he walked his thoughts recurred to the scene at the Waterman's Rest. They were a rough, villainous-looking set, these members of the crew of the Good Intent! Of course, as supercargo he would not come into close contact with them; and Mr. Diggle had warned him that he would find seafaring men somewhat different from the country folk among whom all his life hitherto had been passed.
Diggle's frankness had pleased him. They had left the Four Alls early on the morning after that strange incident at the squire's. Desmond had told his friend what had happened, and Diggle, apparently surprised to learn of Grinsell's villainy, had declared that the sooner they were out of his company the better. They had come by easy stages to London, and were now lodging at a small inn near the Tower: not a very savory neighborhood, Diggle admitted, but convenient. Diggle had soon obtained for Desmond a berth on board the Good Intent bound for the East Indies, and from what he let drop, the boy understood that he was to sail as supercargo.
He had not yet seen the vessel; she was painting, and would shortly be coming up to the Pool. Nor had he seen Captain Barker, who was very much occupied, said Diggle, and had a great deal of trouble in keeping his crew out of the clutches of the press gang. Some of the best of them had been sent to the Waterman's Rest in charge of the chief and second mates. It was at Diggle's suggestion that he had been deputed to convey the captain's message to the men.
It was drawing towards evening when Desmond reached Hounslow Heath; a wide, bare expanse of scrubby land intersected by a muddy road. A light mist lay over the ground, and he was thankful that the road to London was perfectly direct, so that there was no further risk of his losing his way. The solitude and the dismal appearance of the country, together with its ill repute, made him quicken his pace, though he had no fear of molestation; having nothing to lose, he would be but poor prey for a highwayman, and he trusted to his cudgel to protect him from the attentions of any single footpad or tramp.
Striding along in the gathering dusk, he came suddenly upon a curious scene. A heavy traveling carriage was drawn half across the road, its forewheels perilously near the ditch. Near by was a lady, standing with arms stiff and hands clenched, stamping her foot as she addressed, in no measured terms, two men who were rolling over one another in a desperate tussle a few yards away on the heath. As Desmond drew nearer he perceived that a second and younger lady stood at the horses' heads, grasping the bridles firmly with both hands.
His footsteps were unheard on the heavy road, and the elder lady's back being towards him, he came up to her unawares. She started with a little cry when she saw a stranger move towards her out of the gloom. But perceiving at a second glance that he was only a boy, with nothing villainous about his appearance, she turned to him impulsively and, taking him by the sleeve, said:
"There! You see them! The wretches! They are drunk and pay no heed to me! Can you part them? I do not wish to be benighted on this heath. The wretch uppermost is the coachman."
"I might part them, perhaps," said Desmond dubiously. "Of course I will try, ma'am."
"Sure I wouldn't trust 'em, mamma," called the younger lady from the horses' heads. "The man is too drunk to drive."
"I fear 'tis so. 'Tis not our own man, sir. As we returned today from a visit to Taplow our coachman was trampled by a horse at Slough, and my husband stayed with him--an old and trusty servant--till he could consult a surgeon. We found a substitute at the inn to drive us home. But the wretch brought a bottle; he drank with the footman all along the road; and now, as you see, they are at each other's throats in their drunken fury. Sure we shall never get home in time for the rout we are bid to."
"Shall I drive you to London, ma'am?" said Desmond, "'Twere best to leave the men to settle their differences."
"But can you drive?"
"Oh, yes," replied Desmond, with a smile. "I am used to horses."
"Then I beg you to oblige us. Yes, let the wretches fight themselves sober.
"Phyllis, this gentleman will drive us; come."
The girl--a fair, rosy cheeked, merry-eyed damsel of fifteen or thereabouts--left the horses' heads and entered the carriage with her mother. Desmond made a rapid examination of the harness to see that all was right; then he mounted the box and drove off. The noise of the rumbling wheels penetrated the besotted intelligence of the struggling men; they scrambled to their feet, looked wildly about them, and set off in pursuit. But they had no command of their limbs; they staggered clumsily this way and that, and finally found their level in the slimy ditch that flanked the road.
Desmond whipped up the horses in the highest spirits. He had hoped for a lift in a farmer's cart; fortune had favored him in giving him four roadsters to drive himself. And no boy, certainly not one of his romantic impulses, but would feel elated at the idea of helping ladies in distress, and on a spot known far and wide as the scene of perilous adventure.
The carriage was heavy; the road, though level, was thick with autumn mud; and the horses made no great speed. Desmond, indeed, durst not urge them too much, for the mist was thickening, making the air even darker than the hour warranted; and as the roadway had neither hedge nor wall to define it, but was bounded on each side by a ditch, it behooved him to go warily.
He had just come to a particularly heavy part of the road where the horses were compelled to walk, when he heard the thud of hoofs some distance behind him. The sound made him vaguely uneasy. It ceased for a moment or two; then he heard it again, and realized that the horse was coming at full gallop. Instinctively he whipped up the horses. The ladies had also heard the sound; and, putting her head out of the window, the elder implored him to drive faster.
Could the two besotted knaves have put the horseman on his track, he wondered. They must believe that the carriage had been run away with, and in their tipsy rage they would seize any means of overtaking him that offered. The horseman might be an inoffensive traveler; on the other hand, he might not. It was best to leave nothing to chance. With a cheery word, to give the ladies confidence, he lashed at the horses and forced the carriage on at a pace that put its clumsy springs to a severe test.
Fortunately the road was straight, and the horses instinctively kept to the middle of the track. But fast as they were now going, Desmond felt that if the horseman was indeed pursuing he would soon be overtaken. He must be prepared for the worst. Gripping the reins hard with his left hand, he dropped the whip for a moment and felt in the box below the seat in the hope of finding a pistol; but it was empty.
He whistled under his breath at the discovery: if the pursuer was a "gentleman of the road" his predicament was indeed awkward. The carriage was rumbling and rattling so noisily that he had long since lost the sound of the horse's hoofs behind. He could not pause to learn if the pursuit had ceased; his only course was to drive on. Surely he would soon reach the edge of the heath; there would be houses; every few yards must bring him nearer to the possibility of obtaining help. Thus thinking, he clenched his teeth and lashed the reeking flanks of the horses, which plunged along now at a mad gallop.
Suddenly, above the noise of their hoofs and the rattling of the coach he heard an angry shout. A scream came from the ladies. Heeding neither, Desmond quickly reversed his whip, holding it halfway down the long handle, with the heavy iron-tipped stock outward. The horseman came galloping up on the right side, shouted to Desmond to stop, and without waiting drew level with the box and fired point blank.
But the rapid movement of his horse and the swaying of the carriage forbade him to take careful aim. Desmond felt the wind of the bullet as it whizzed past him. Next moment he leaned slightly sidewise, and, never loosening his hold on the reins with his left hand, he brought the weighty butt of his whip with a rapid cut, half sidewise, half downwards, upon the horseman's head. The man with a cry swerved on the saddle; almost before Desmond could recover his balance he was amazed to see the horse dash suddenly to the right, spring across the ditch, and gallop at full speed across the heath.
But he had no time at the moment to speculate on this very easy victory. The horses, alarmed by the pistol shot, were plunging madly, dragging the vehicle perilously near to the ditch on the left hand. Then Desmond's familiarity with animals, gained at so much cost to himself on his brother's farm, bore good fruit. He spoke to the horses soothingly, managed them with infinite tact, and coaxed them into submission. Then he let them have their heads, and they galloped on at speed, pausing only when they reached the turnpike going into Brentford. They were then in a bath of foam; their flanks heaving like to burst.
Learning from the turnpike man that he could obtain a change of horses at the "Bull" inn, Desmond drove there, and was soon upon his way again.
While the change was being made, he obtained from the lady the address in Soho Square where she was staying. The new horses were fresh; the carriage rattled through Gunnersbury, past the turnpike at Hammersmith and through Kensington, and soon after nine o'clock Desmond had the satisfaction of pulling up at the door of Sheriff Soames' mansion in Soho Square.
The door was already open, the rattle of wheels having brought lackeys with lighted torches to welcome the belated travelers. Torches flamed in the cressets on both sides of the entrance. The hall was filled with servants and members of the household, and in the bustle that ensued when the ladies in their brocades and hoops had entered the house, Desmond saw an opportunity of slipping away. He felt that it was perhaps a little ungracious to go without a word to the ladies; but he was tired; he was unaccustomed to town society, and the service he had been able to render seemed to him so slight that he was modestly eager to efface himself. Leaving the carriage in the hands of one of the lackeys, with a few words of explanation, he hastened on towards Holborn and the city.
It was four o'clock, and Tuesday afternoon--the day before the Good Intent was to sail from the Pool. Desmond was kicking his heels in his inn, longing for the morrow. Even now he had not seen the vessel on which he was to set forth in quest of his fortune. She lay in the Pool, but Diggle had found innumerable reasons why Desmond should not visit her until he embarked for good and all. She was loading her cargo; he would be in the way. Captain Barker was in a bad temper; better not see him in his tantrums. The press gangs were active; they thought nothing of boarding a vessel and seizing on any active young fellow who looked a likely subject for his Majesty's navy. Such were the reasons alleged.
And so Desmond had to swallow his impatience and fill in his time as best he might; reading the newspapers, going to see Mr. Garrick and Mistress Kitty Clive at Drury Lane, spending an odd evening at Ranelagh Gardens.
On this Tuesday afternoon he had nothing to do. Diggle was out; Desmond had read the newspapers and glanced at the last number of the World; he had written to his mother--the third letter since his arrival in London; he could not settle to anything. He resolved to go for a walk as far as St. Paul's, perhaps, and take a last look at the busy streets he was not likely to see again for many a day.
Forth then he issued. The streets were muddy; a mist was creeping up from the river, promising to thicken into a London fog, and the link boys were already preparing their tow and looking for a rich harvest of coppers ere the night was old. Desmond picked his way through the quagmires of John Street, crossed Crutched Friars, and went up Mark Lane into Fenchurch Street, intending to go by Leadenhall Street and Cornhill into Cheapside.
He had just reached the lower end of Billiter Street, the narrow thoroughfare leading into Leadenhall, when he saw Diggle's tall figure running amain towards him, with another man close behind, apparently in hot pursuit. Diggle caught sight of Desmond at the same moment, and his eyes gleamed as with relief. He quickened his pace.
"Hold this fellow behind me," he panted as he passed, and before Desmond could put a question he was gone.
There was no time for deliberation. Desmond had but just perceived that the pursuer was in the garb of a gentleman and had a broad patch of plaster stretched across his left temple, when the moment for action arrived. Stooping low, he suddenly caught at the man's knees. Down he came heavily, mouthing hearty abuse, and man and boy were on the ground together.
Desmond was up first. He now saw that a second figure was hurrying on from the other end of the street. He was not sure what Diggle demanded of him; whether it was sufficient to have tripped up the pursuer, or whether he must hold him still in play. But by this time the man was also on his feet; his hat was off, his silk breeches and brown coat with lace ruffles were all bemired. Puffing and blowing, uttering many a round oath such as came freely to the lips of the Englishman of King George the Second's time, he shouted to his friend behind to come on, and, disregarding Desmond, made to continue his pursuit.
Desmond could but grapple with him.
"Let go, villain!" cried the man, striving to free himself.
Desmond clung on; there was a brief struggle, but he was no match in size or strength for his opponent, who was thick-set and of considerable girth. He fell backwards, overborne by the man's weight. His head struck on the road; dazed by the blow he loosened his clutch, and lay for a moment in semi-consciousness while the man sprang away.
But he was not so far gone as not to hear a loud shout behind him and near at hand, followed by the tramp of feet.
"Avast there!" The voice was familiar: surely it was Bulger's. "Fair play! Fourteen stone against seven en't odds. Show a leg, mateys."
The big sailor with a dozen of his mates stood full in the path of the irate gentleman, who, seeing himself beset, drew his rapier and prepared to fight his way through. A moment later he was joined by his companion, who had also drawn his rapier. Together the gentlemen stood facing the sailors.
"This is check, Merriman," said the last comer, as the seamen, flourishing their hangers menacingly, pressed forward past the prostrate body of Desmond. "The fellow has escaped you; best withdraw at discretion."
"Come on," shouted Bulger, waving his hook. "Bill Bulger en't the man to sheer off from a couple of landlubbers."
As with his mates in line he steadily advanced, the two gentlemen, their lips set, their eyes fixed on the assailants, their rapiers pointed, backed slowly up the street. The noise had brought clerks and merchants to the doors; someone sprang a rattle; there were cries for the watchmen; but no one actively interfered.
Meanwhile Desmond had regained his senses, and, still feeling somewhat dizzy, had sat down upon a doorstep, wondering not a little at the pursuit and flight of Diggle and the opportune arrival of the sailors. Everything had happened very rapidly; scarcely two minutes had elapsed since the first onset.
He was still resting when there was a sudden change in the quality of the shouts up street. Hitherto they had been boisterous rallying cries; now they were unmistakably hearty British cheers, expressing nothing but approval and admiration. And they came not merely from the throats of the sailors, but from the now considerable crowd that filled the street. A few moments afterwards he saw the throng part, and through it Bulger marching at the head of his mates, singing lustily. They came opposite to the step on which he sat, and Bulger caught sight of him.
"Blest if it en't our supercargo!" he cried, stopping short.
A shout of laughter broke from the sailors. One of them struck up a song.