[Illustration]




                             MARTIN OF OLD
                                 LONDON

                                   By
                             HERBERT STRANG



                             [Illustration]


                        OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
                       LONDON : HUMPHREY MILFORD




                            STORIES FOR BOYS
                          _by_ HERBERT STRANG

                  _Adventures of Dick Trevanion, The_
                  _Adventures of Harry Rochester, The_
                         _A Gentleman-at-arms_
                           _Air Patrol, The_
                            _Air Scout, The_
                        _Barclay of the Guides_
                      _Boys of the Light Brigade_
                            _Humphrey Bold_
                         _Jack Brown in China_
                                 _Kobo_
                        _One of Clive’s Heroes_
                           _Palm Tree Island_
                            _Rob the Ranger_
                                _Samba_
                         _Settlers and Scouts_
                              _Sultan Jim_
                             _Tom Burnaby_
                           _Winning His Name_
                    _With Drake on the Spanish Main_


                 REPRINTED 1936 IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE
               UNIVERSITY PRESS, OXFORD, BY JOHN JOHNSON




                               _CONTENTS_

                                                           PAGE

               I. THE WAITING BOAT                            5
              II. MARTIN AT HOME                              8
             III. THE ASSAULT                                13
              IV. MARTIN LOSES HIS JOB                       16
               V. THE NOISE IN THE NIGHT                     22
              VI. MARTIN’S PASSENGER                         28
             VII. A BLOW IN THE DARK                         33
            VIII. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW                     39
              IX. AN ADVENTURE IN PUDDING LANE               44
               X. A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR                       48
              XI. MR. SLOCUM AGAIN                           54
             XII. THE BRASS-BOUND BOX                        59
            XIII. BLACKBEARD VISITS THE BAKER                64
             XIV. ON BOARD THE _SANTA MARIA_                 69
              XV. COFFEE FOR TWO                             74
             XVI. WHAT MARTIN FOUND                          80
            XVII. STOP, THIEF!                               84
           XVIII. SALLY TAKES A HAND                         90
             XIX. GUNDRA DISAPPEARS                          94
              XX. FIRE! FIRE!                               100
             XXI. WHAT SUSAN FOUND                          105
            XXII. THE EMPTY ROOM                            110
           XXIII. 'PRENTICES TO THE RESCUE                  115
            XXIV. MR. SLOCUM MOVES AT LAST                  121
             XXV. MARTIN FOLLOWS                            126
            XXVI. PRISONERS                                 131
           XXVII. MARTIN FINDS A WAY                        136
          XXVIII. THE BOYS ESCAPE                           142
            XXIX. MARTIN USES HIS WITS                      147
             XXX. THE BOYS SWIM FOR IT                      152
            XXXI. GOLLOP MAKES A DISCOVERY                  157
           XXXII. THE PURSUIT                               163
          XXXIII. AT GRIPS AT LAST                          168
           XXXIV. GOLLOP AT BAY                             174
            XXXV. MARTIN TO THE RESCUE                      177
           XXXVI. MARTIN’S ORDEAL                           182
          XXXVII. ALL’S WELL                                188

                          Martin of Old London




                           CHAPTER THE FIRST


                            THE WAITING BOAT

One fine evening in the August of the year 1666, Martin Leake, aged
fourteen and a few months, had strolled down to the riverside for a
breath of air.

It had been a terribly hot day. The whole month had been fine and dry;
the narrow streets of London were stuffy and smelly, and it was a relief
to escape from them to the bank of the broad Thames, where the easterly
wind carried in a sharp salt tang from the sea.

The river always had a charm for Martin. In those days it might have
been called the main highway of London City, and he loved to watch the
wherries laden with passengers, and the tall ships lying at anchor or
floating up or down on the tide.

He sauntered on and on, every now and then exchanging a nod or smile or
cheery word with some waterman he knew. But most of the watermen were
busy on the river, and as the evening went on Martin met fewer and fewer
people.

Presently he sat down to rest near the head of a flight of stairs that
led down to the water. A broad stone post gave support for his back, and
leaning against it he watched the sun sinking into a fiery sky, and the
lights that began to twinkle on the ships moored in the stream.

It was very peaceful. The only sounds that reached his ears were the
plash of oars in passing boats and the voices of the watermen and their
passengers.

Turning to look in the other direction, he noticed for the first time a
ship’s boat straining at her painter, which was made fast to a ring at
the foot of the stairs. In the boat sat, or rather crouched, a solitary
seaman—a man with a very dark face and long, coal-black hair. His head
was bent forward on his crossed arms; it seemed that the light rise and
fall of the boat on the tide had rocked him to sleep. He wore a sailor’s
long red cap and an orange-coloured jersey.

A waterman passing at the moment stopped and smiled as he glanced at the
slumbering figure. Observing Martin, he said:

“They sleep like cats, these foreigners.”

“He’s a foreigner, then?”

“For sure: out of the Portugal ship repairing at Deptford. Her
mizzen-mast, they say, was shot away by a French privateer nigh the
Goodwins. Very bold these Frenchies are of late, though I did hear as
the Duke of York have give ’em a good drubbing.”

He said Good-night and passed on.

All was still again. The glow faded from the sky. Martin’s eyes were
attracted by a three-master that glided out of the dusk, dropping down
with the tide. He watched her graceful shape threading her way among the
smaller craft on the river, and wondered where she was bound for, what
adventures she would meet with on her voyage.

She had almost disappeared when Martin was roused from his reverie by
the sound of footsteps on the cobbled roadway behind him. Peeping round
the edge of the post, he saw, in the gloom, a man come forward to the
head of the stairs. There he paused and threw a look round in the manner
of a person who is ill at ease.

Martin caught a glimpse of his face, and, with a start of surprise,
shrank back into the shelter of the post. The man had not seen him. Next
moment he stepped down the stairs, and in a low voice hailed the seaman
slumbering in the boat.

There was no answer. The newcomer called again, more urgently. This time
the sailor stirred, straightened himself, mumbled a reply, and hauling
on the painter, drew the boat alongside the lower stairs. The man
stepped into it, casting another suspicious glance around as he seated
himself on the stern thwart.

A word was spoken that Martin did not catch. Then the seaman cast off,
thrust his oars into the rowlocks, and with long, swinging strokes drove
the boat into the darkness downstream.

“What’s Mr. Slocum after?” said Martin to himself as he got up and
started for home.




                           CHAPTER THE SECOND


                             MARTIN AT HOME

And who was Mr. Slocum?

Martin was the only son of a master mariner who, retiring after many
years at sea, had settled in a little house near the Tower. He had
suffered many misfortunes. Ship after ship in which he had invested his
savings was lost, and the last of them, the _Merry Maid_, sailing from
Bristol in the year ’62, had never been heard of again.

“Have you seen or heard aught of the _Merry Maid_?” was the question the
old captain had put to all seafaring men coming into the river.

The answer was always the same. Martin often wondered what had become of
the vessel. Many a time he wished that he could go sailing over the seas
to try to find some trace of her. But when his father and mother both
died of the Plague, he felt bound to stay on shore and help to look
after his little sister Lucy.

They were left almost destitute, having nothing except the small sum
that was realised by the sale of Captain Leake’s furniture. This was in
the hands of a lawyer, and as it would bring in only a few shillings a
week, it was clear that Martin would have to earn something.

He was taken from St. Paul’s school, and the lawyer found him a job in
the shop of Mr. Greatorex, a wealthy goldsmith in Cheapside, who had
known his father, and indeed had had an interest in the _Merry Maid_.

“I’ll give the lad a trial,” Mr. Greatorex had said when the lawyer
approached him. “He’ll not get on very far unless he is apprenticed, of
course; but I’m not inclined to take him as an apprentice without a
premium; at any rate, until I find out the kind of lad he is. I’ve lost
hundreds of pounds in that unlucky vessel. Let him come and do odd jobs
for a while. Mr. Slocum will tell me how he gets on.”

Martin had never seen Mr. Greatorex himself. Unlike most of the city
merchants of that day, who lived over their shops, the goldsmith had
built himself a house in the country, and left his business almost
entirely to Mr. Slocum, his manager.

There were three apprentices who lived in the house, two of them
sleeping under the shop counter. They rather despised the new boy.
Martin had to come early in the morning to take down the shutters and
sweep out the shop. All day he was running errands between the shop and
the workrooms in Foster Lane, or carrying parcels to customers, or
fetching things for Mr. Slocum and the housekeeper.

At the close of business he had to put up the shutters, and was often
very tired by the time he reached home. At first one or two of the
apprentices were inclined to bully him, but he showed himself to have
plenty of spirit and a neat way with his fists, and his tormentors soon
learnt to leave him alone. But his life was a hard one. Mr. Slocum was
ill-tempered, and nothing but Martin’s care for his sister kept him from
running away to sea.

All the way home Martin puzzled about Mr. Slocum’s journey down the
river in the foreign boat. The apprentices talked among themselves about
their master, and Martin knew that he often went out at night, not
returning until very late. He was late also in the morning, except when
Mr. Greatorex was expected to ride in from the country. And his temper
seemed to grow worse every day. He barked at the apprentices like an
angry dog, and if they or Martin committed the slightest fault, they had
learnt to expect a thrashing.

The house where Martin lived was a large old building that stood by
itself some distance from the riverside. It had once been the mansion of
a nobleman, but of late years it had been let out in tenements.

The basement was occupied by an old seaman named Dick Gollop and his
wife. Gollop had served under Captain Leake in many a voyage, and
retired at the same time, obtaining employment as a constable. His thick
round figure and bandy legs were well known along the waterside, and he
was so good-tempered that the small boys of the neighbourhood liked to
go with him on his rounds, and beg him to tell them a story.

When Martin and his sister were left homeless it was arranged that they
should live with the Gollops, the lawyer paying a small sum weekly for
their board and lodging. Martin slept in a small parlour at the back,
and Lucy in a slip room. They had their meals with the constable and his
wife, whose tongue was sometimes rather sharp, but whose heart was kind.

“You’re late to-night, young master,” said Susan Gollop as Martin
entered the kitchen. Supper was on the table, and Lucy had already begun
her meal. Gollop was not present.

“Look what I’ve got,” said the little girl, holding up a cake of
hardbake.

“Ay, the Mounseer gentleman will spoil you, that he will,” said Susan.
“I never liked foreigners, but the Mounseer has a kind heart, and he has
took to you most uncommon.”

The Mounseer was an old French gentleman who had fled from persecution
in France a few years before, and now occupied the first floor of the
Gollops’ house. He had struck up a friendship with Lucy, and regularly
every day escorted her to and from the dame’s school she attended about
a mile away. Mrs. Gollop was glad to earn a little every week for
looking after his room and his clothes; but he bought his own food and
did himself what little cooking he needed.

“And what do you think?” Susan went on. “The second floor is let at
last.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Martin. “You’ll get more money now.”

“I wish I might,” said the old woman. “But the new gentleman will do for
himself. He’s a nice, fair-spoken gentleman, I will say that, Seymour by
name, and I wonder at him making his own bed and dusting and all that.
But there, I suppose he knows his own business; it’s not for me to say;
only I would have liked to make a shilling or two extra doing for him as
I did for the lodger what’s gone.”

At this moment heavy footsteps were heard clumping down the stone
stairs.

“Here’s my old man,” said Susan, going to the door.

“A fine night, my hearties,” said the constable as he came in. “And
plaguey hot. Never did I know a summer as dry as this. Give me a drink,
Sue.”

He hung his three-cornered hat on a peg, threw his staff into a corner,
stripped off his long coat, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His broad
red face beamed as he sat down to his simple supper of bread and cheese
and beer.

“Well, young master, what’s your own news to-day?” he said to Martin.
“Have you been conveying gold and silver about the city? When I think of
the watches and the goblets and the golden rings you carry on you, I
wonder to myself whether, being a constable, I oughtn’t to go with you.”

“I haven’t done much of that to-day,” said Martin. “I had to fetch some
tobacco for Mr. Slocum—ah, I must tell you! I was down by the river
just now, and I saw Mr. Slocum get into a boat with a foreign sailor,
from a Portugal ship, I was told.”

“Well, that’s not a wonderful bit of news to tell the Lord Mayor about.
These warm nights many folks like a row on the river. It freshens ’em up
and helps ’em to sleep. I reckon all the watermen were busy, and Mr.
Slocum took the first boat that was handy.”

“I don’t think so. The boat seemed to be waiting for him.”

“Maybe he had business with the master of the Portugal ship—a matter of
earrings for the crew, belike.”

“But he came down in a sneaking sort of way, as if he didn’t want to be
seen.”

“Steady, my lad; don’t you go for to be too sharp, getting fancies into
your head. It’s none of your business, what Mr. Slocum does; and if he
didn’t wish to be seen, he won’t thank you for talking about it. So take
my advice and keep your mouth shut.”




                           CHAPTER THE THIRD


                              THE ASSAULT

Next day, when Martin was preparing to put up the shutters of the shop
in Cheapside, Mr. Slocum called him.

“Here, you Leake, you’re not to go home yet. There’s a parcel to be
taken to an address in Middle Temple Lane. It must go without fail this
evening, and you’ll have to wait for it.”

“Very well, sir,” said Martin.

“And on your way you can leave a letter in Whitefriars. That will save a
special journey. Don’t loiter, mind. You’ll take a receipt for the
parcel, and give it to me to-morrow.”

Martin was a little annoyed at being kept late, as he had promised to
take Lucy on the river. But there was no help for it. He closed the
shop, then went to the workrooms in Foster Lane, where the parcel would
be made up.

Only one workman was there at his bench, giving the final polish to a
goblet of silver-gilt. He appeared to Martin to dawdle over his job, and
it was nearly dark before the parcel was ready.

Martin set off with it, going through St. Paul’s Churchyard and down
Ludgate Hill. Then he turned to the left, towards the maze of lanes and
alleys that constituted the district of Whitefriars. It was at a house
in one of these lanes that he had to deliver the letter.

He walked quickly, for it was an unsavoury neighbourhood. Many of the
houses were old and tumble-down; many of the people who lived in them
were bad characters; and Martin, knowing that the parcel he carried was
valuable, wished that he could have taken it by the more direct and open
route along Fleet Street.

It was already so dark that he had some difficulty in finding the house
at which the letter was to be delivered. In those days houses were not
numbered; some were distinguished by signs that hung over the doorways,
others had no distinguishing marks at all.

The address on Martin’s letter ran: “To Mr. Mumford, at his house over
against the Golden Fleece Tavern.”

After making some inquiries, Martin discovered the house where Mr.
Mumford lived, and rapped on the door. A window opened, and a hoarse
voice asked, “Who’s there?”

“A letter from Mr. Slocum,” Martin replied.

A few moments afterwards the door was opened, and a rough-looking man,
holding a candle, gave a hard look at Martin as he took the letter.

“All right; no answer,” he said, without breaking the seal.

Martin hurried away, wondering how the man knew there was no answer
before he had read the letter.

He had got about half-way to his destination in Middle Temple Lane when
two men rushed suddenly out of a narrow doorway and almost knocked him
down. As he staggered, he felt a tug at the parcel he carried under his
arm.

Tightening his grip upon it, he drew himself away, but next moment a
sharp blow behind his knees threw him to the ground.

“It’s under him; quick about it,” said a hoarse voice very much like Mr.
Mumford’s.

Martin had fallen on the parcel. He realised now that the men were
trying to steal it, and he grasped it with both arms, and called aloud
for help.

One of the men instantly clapped his hand over Martin’s mouth, while the
other sought to wrench the parcel from his clinging arms. He kicked out
with his feet, pressed with all his weight upon the parcel, and
desperately resisted the man’s attempt to turn him over on his back.

But his assailant was a man of brawn. The struggle was hopeless. As
Martin was heaved violently over, his mouth was released for a moment
from the clutching hand, and he let out a piercing cry. A heavy shoe
kicked him; once more he was stifled; but his cry had been heard; there
was an answering shout and the clatter of feet on the cobblestones down
the street.

The ruffians made one more attempt to wrest the parcel away. Failing,
they kicked him again, and made off just in time to escape the sturdy
watermen who had rushed to the spot.

“Why, it’s young Master Leake,” said one of them, lifting him from the
ground. “What’s amiss?”

Bruised and breathless, Martin told his story.

“They didn’t get my parcel,” he concluded. “But it’s ruined, crushed;
look at it. It’s no good my going on. I must take it back.”

“And we’ll see you safe,” said the watermen.

Escorted by his rescuers, Martin returned to the shop in Cheapside, and
gave the parcel into the hands of the housekeeper. Then, his aching body
supported between his two friends, he walked slowly homeward.




                           CHAPTER THE FOURTH


                          MARTIN LOSES HIS JOB

The moment Martin entered the shop next day Mr. Slocum pounced on him.

“Here, you Leake, come here,” he cried. “What do you mean by it? What
have you got to say for yourself, eh? A pretty messenger you are! Look
at this goblet; scratched, dented, absolutely ruined! Who’s to pay for
the damage? Tell me that.”

“Truly I am sorry, sir,” said Martin; “but it was not my fault. I was
set upon and knocked down by two ruffians. But for some watermen who
came up I should have lost the goblet altogether.”

“Watermen, you say. Did they chase the footpads?”

“No, sir; the men ran away at once.”

“You’d know them again, I suppose?”

“I’m afraid not. It was nearly dark, and they attacked me so suddenly
that I hadn’t time to get much of a look at them. But I did see that one
of them had a big scar across his forehead, just above the eye.”

“And where did this happen?”

“A little way beyond Mr. Mumford’s, sir, just after I had given him your
letter.”

“And you mean to tell me you were stupid enough to carry a costly goblet
into that nest of rogues?”

“You told me to, sir.”

“I did not.”

“Indeed, sir, you said I was to take Mr. Mumford’s letter on my way, and
that meant——”

“Don’t contradict me! You were a careless young dog; went meandering
along, I dare say, with your nose in the air and your eyes on the stars.
You are not to be trusted. If anything of the sort happens again, you
and I will say good-bye, Master Leake. Get your broom and sweep the
floor.”

Mr. Slocum went to his little room at the back, and Martin set about his
work, smarting under a sense of injustice. He had simply done as he was
told, and it was unfair to be blamed for what could not have been
foreseen. Who would have guessed that anyone would attack a boy carrying
a small parcel?

To add to his annoyance, the ’prentices began to bait him.

“A likely story,” said one. “You made it all up.”

“Of course he did,” said another. “Butter-fingers! Dropped the parcel; a
horse gave it a kick, and he tells this cock-and-bull story to explain
the damage.”

Martin went on sweeping, saying nothing, though his ears began to burn.

“Look at him blushing,” jeered the first. “His name ought to be Molly.”

Martin threw down his broom and sprang at his tormentor, a big, hulking
fellow half a head taller. They grappled; Martin wrenched himself out of
the other’s grip and rushed at him with clenched fists.

They fought almost without sound, fearing to draw Mr. Slocum from his
den. The ’prentice was content at first to ward off the blows that
Martin rained on him, and the scornful smile on his face only fed the
smaller boy’s rage.

So intent were they upon the fight that neither noticed the entry of a
well-dressed elderly gentleman. He stood looking on with a smile until,
scuffling and swaying, the boys lurched against him, the ’prentice
treading on his toes.

At this moment Mr. Slocum came out of his room and, rushing down the
shop, gave Martin a smart clout on the side of his head.

“I beg a thousand pardons, sir,” he said to the customer. “This is a
troublesome young rascal; I have already had to admonish him this
morning, and——”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Slocum!” said the gentleman, smiling. “Boys will
be boys. I admire the youngster’s pluck, and as for your admonishments,
I fancy they are due rather to the other for fighting one so much
smaller than himself. Besides, the lout trod on my toes, confound him!”

“I am shocked, sir, deeply pained,” said Mr. Slocum, glaring at the two
boys. “Get away to your work; I will deal with you presently.”

Martin could not help watching the pleasant red-faced gentleman who had
taken his part. He noticed how humble Mr. Slocum’s attitude was to the
customer, and how respectfully he spoke.

“I wonder who he is?” Martin thought, and the gentleman’s features
remained fixed in his memory.

When the customer had finished his business and departed, Mr. Slocum
turned to Martin and, speaking in his usual harsh, overbearing way,
said:

“You disgrace this establishment! Mind you this: if I catch you fighting
here again I shall dismiss you on the spot!”

Martin made no protest, but he felt the injustice of his employer’s
treatment, and wished more than ever that he was free to find a place as
ship’s boy.

The very next day matters came to a head.

Early in the afternoon Martin was surprised to see enter the shop the
old Frenchman who lived above the Gollops. At the moment he was
polishing some silver plate in the back premises, along with two of the
’prentices. The third was behind the counter, and the Frenchman asked
him, in his queer broken English, if he might see Mr. Slocum.

[Illustration]

The ’prentice went into Mr. Slocum’s office, and, returning in a few
moments, bade the visitor, not too politely, to follow him. The door of
the office was closed behind him.

“What’s old Froggy want now?” said one of the ’prentices.

Martin looked at the speaker in surprise. He had not himself seen
Mounseer in the shop before, but evidently this was not his first visit.

“I’d like to know,” replied his opponent of the previous day. “I wonder
he dares to show himself in a respectable shop. His clothes aren’t fit
for a scarecrow.”

Martin flushed. The Frenchman was his friend, a kindly, courteous,
dignified gentleman, and he disliked to hear him criticised. It was
true, Martin had to admit, now that his attention had been called to
him, that his clothes were shabby; but they were well made, and of good
quality. For the first time Martin asked himself whether the old man was
very poor.

“I wonder where he lives,” the first ’prentice went on. “He’s never had
anything sent home, has he?”

“Not that I know of,” was the answer. “I dare say he lives in some
filthy cellar and feeds on rats and mice. He’s come a-begging, I should
think; but he won’t get much out of old Slocum.”

Martin had been growing more and more indignant, and could remain silent
no longer.

“Let me tell you the French gentleman is a friend of mine, and lives in
my house,” he blurted out.

“Oh, indeed! A friend of yours, is he? And you and he live in the same
cellar, I suppose, and share the vermin? I’m not surprised.”

“He doesn’t live in a cellar. You’d better say no more about him; I
won’t stand it.”

“I’ll say what I like without asking you. He’s a miserable old scarecrow
of a foreigner, and we don’t want people like him in London. He would
make a good guy for the Fifth of November. I’d like to light some
crackers under him and see him jump.”

This was more than Martin could stand. Dropping the salver he was
polishing, he rushed at the ’prentice with such impetuosity that the boy
lost his balance and fell. Up again in an instant, he closed with
Martin, and, forgetting everything else, the two began to fight in the
narrow space behind the counter.

“Look out!” warned the ’prentice looking on.

But the warning came too late. They lurched against one of the
glass-cases containing jewellery. There was a crash. Splinters of glass
fell all about the floor, the door of Mr. Slocum’s den flew open, and
Mr. Slocum himself, pale with anger, dashed out, followed by the old
Frenchman.

“You again, you young villain!” roared the goldsmith.

He caught Martin by the ear, lugged him to the door, and shot him into
the street with a parting kick.

“Don’t you dare to show your face here again,” he cried, “or I’ll thrash
you black and blue.”




                           CHAPTER THE FIFTH


                         THE NOISE IN THE NIGHT

Martin picked himself up, rubbed the mud from his clothes, and without
giving another look at Mr. Slocum or the shop, set off on the way home.

“I’m glad to be out of it,” he thought; “but what shall I do now to earn
some money?”

He had taken only a few steps when he heard his name called from behind.
Turning, he saw Mounseer hurrying after him, and stood still until the
Frenchman had caught him up.

“I see it,” said the old gentleman. “I ask, what is the matter?”

“I am dismissed, sir; that is all,” Martin replied, as they walked on.

“Dismissed! But yes; does the Englishman dismiss with violence? I do not
understand.”

“Mr. Slocum was angry. I was fighting one of the ’prentices.”

“Ah, ah, fighting; what you call the box,” said the Frenchman, smiling.
“That is what the English like, I think. It is not then a reason to
dismiss.”

“I fought yesterday, and Mr. Slocum threatened to dismiss me if I did it
again.”

“Ah! That is another thing. To fight once, yes; but to fight a second
time when the master forbids, that is disobedience, also it is folly.
What was the subject of the quarrel? I may ask?”

“The fellow was saying things about——”

Martin pulled himself up. He could not hurt the old gentleman’s feelings
by repeating the ill-natured sneers at his appearance.

“You do not tell, eh? Well, I ask no more. You are young, Martin; as you
grow older you will know that fighting is not for always; you must
choose the proper time. Without doubt, Mr. Slocum is a hard man; but it
is reasonable he think his place of business is not the right place, nor
the hours of business the right time, for the practice of the box.”

Martin ruefully agreed that his friend was right.

“But come, then,” Mounseer went on, noticing his downcast look. “Do not
be down in dumps; that is what you say, eh? To fight is no disgrace, if
the cause is good. To be dismissed, that is bad, certainly; but I think
you will soon find other employment.”

The Frenchman’s confidence was not shared by Dick Gollop and his wife
when Martin explained the reason of his early return. In applying for a
new situation he would need a reference, and it would be hopeless to
look for a recommendation from Mr. Slocum.

“What I say is, go straight to Mr. Greatorex,” said Susan. “That Slocum
is a wicked tyrant, that’s what he is, and Mr. Greatorex ought to know
about him.”

“Nonsense, Sue!” said her husband. “The boy disobeyed orders; that’s
mutiny, and Mr. Greatorex wouldn’t override his manager. Martin won’t
tell what he was fighting about, but says he isn’t ashamed of it.
There’s a mystery somewhere, and I don’t like it. He must look for
another job, and I hope he’ll get one.”

Late that night, when Dick Gollop was out on his round as constable, and
Lucy had gone to bed, Susan was stitching a rent in one of Mounseer’s
shirts.

“There! That’s done at last,” she said. “’Tis time Mounseer had a new
shirt, I’m thinking. Deary me! I’m tired out after working all this
broiling hot day, and I’m sure I don’t want to climb those stairs.”

“Let me take it up,” said Martin. “I’ll save your legs.”

“That’s kind of you. I promised the old gentleman he should have it
to-night, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”

Martin took the shirt and left the room. The staircase was very dark,
and he walked up slowly, feeling his way along the wall.

When he was about half-way up he heard a creaking on the landing above,
opposite the Frenchman’s door. He halted, and, supposing that Mounseer
himself had come out of his room to ask for his shirt, he was on the
point of calling to him when he caught the sound of hurried but soft
footfalls on the stairs higher up, and then of a door gently closed.

He went on again, reached Mounseer’s door, and knocked. At first there
was no answer; but after knocking a second time he heard the sound of
flint and steel in the room within, then a voice asking who was there,
and at last a fumbling with the bolt.

“Ah! It is you, my young friend, with my shirt,” said the old gentleman,
opening the door. “I had fallen asleep, and had to light my candle.”

“I thought I heard you on the stairs, sir,” said Martin.

“Oh no! I have not left my room. It is late, and time for your bed.
Good-night. A thousand thanks!”

Martin returned to the basement, bade good-night to Susan, and went to
bed. But he found it impossible to sleep. He lay tossing on his bed,
worrying about the future, listening to the church clocks striking the
hours.

It was some time after midnight when the stillness was broken by what
seemed to be a low whistle from the patch of waste ground outside and a
little above Martin’s window. The sound was not repeated, and Martin
almost believed he was mistaken; but a few seconds later he was roused
by another sound; a slight creaking, as if a window somewhere had been
opened, then closed again.

On so hot a night anyone might open a window for air. It was the
closing, after the whistle, that caused Martin to get up, go to his
window and look out upon the waste ground. No one was in sight. There
were no more sounds, and Martin went back to bed.

Just as he was at last dozing off to sleep he was roused by a slight
sound in the house. In old buildings the stairs often creak without
apparent cause, and Martin was not startled or disturbed. But a minute
or two later he heard a louder sound, like wood breaking, and then
shouts and the stamping of heavy feet.

Springing out of bed he rushed into the passage and up the stairs as
quickly as he could in the dark. The noise appeared to be coming from
the neighbourhood of Mounseer’s room. When he reached the landing he was
hurled back against the wall by the impact of a heavy figure that seemed
to have come through the open door.

Before he could recover his footing he heard someone stumbling down the
stairs. He darted to the banisters and was just able to see a dark form
rush along the passage and through the front door, which he banged after
him.

“What is it? What ever is it?” cried Susan from the door of her room.
Lucy shrieked with alarm and fear.

“Don’t worry,” Martin called. “He has gone.”

He went into the Frenchman’s room, and by the faint starlight he saw a
scene that surprised him. In the middle of the floor stood the old
gentleman, rapier in hand, his coat wrapped round his left arm, as
duellists were accustomed to wear their cloaks. A chair was overturned,
and there was broken wood near the door.

“It is you, my young friend,” said the Frenchman, dropping his point.
“Be good enough to light my candle.”

While Martin did this, Mounseer stood on guard, watching the door.

“He will not come back, I think,” he said. “I was disturbed by a sound
outside my door; I sleep lightly, like all who have followed campaigns,
and I had time to rise and seize my rapier before the bolt was forced
and that wretch broke in.”

“Who was he, sir?” asked Martin.

“That I know not,” was the reply. “But he will remember me,” he added
with a chuckle. “I felt my point get home, and the wretch was only saved
because, as I pressed him, I stumbled over my chair. . . . But, pardon,
monsieur, I did not observe you.”

In the doorway stood a tall man in a dressing-gown, his close-cropped
poll and blue shaven cheeks giving him a strange appearance in the
candlelight. It was Mr. Seymour, the new lodger who had recently taken
the top floor.

“I would not intrude, sir,” said the newcomer politely, “but I heard the
noise, and came to give neighbourly assistance if it were needed. I see
that it was not.”

Mounseer bowed without saying anything.

“I am vastly relieved, sir,” Mr. Seymour went on. “Such an attack might
have been dangerous to one of your years. The city is infested with
rogues, but one might expect to be safe with a constable in the house.”

“The constable is not in the house at night, sir,” said the Frenchman
drily. “I thank you for your benevolent intention; the danger is past,
and I would not keep you from your bed.”

His bow as he said this could only be taken as a courteous dismissal,
and Mr. Seymour bowed himself out. Martin guessed from the expression of
Mounseer’s face that he did not like his neighbour.

“Now, my friend Martin, please me by returning to your bed,” said the
old gentleman. “I will barricade my door; they will not disturb me
again.”

Martin heard the clocks strike two before he fell asleep. And it was
only in his last waking moment that he remembered having heard creaking
stairs earlier that night near Mounseer’s room.




                           CHAPTER THE SIXTH


                           MARTIN’S PASSENGER

Martin spent all the next day in a fruitless search for work. Either no
one wanted a boy, or the few that had places open would not engage a boy
who had been dismissed for fighting.

In the evening, tired and dejected, Martin was walking homeward along
the waterside. Glancing towards the stairs where he had seen Mr. Slocum
embark on the foreigner’s boat, he noticed two small boys bending down
over a boat that was moored to an iron ring. A third boy stood half-way
up the stairs, evidently keeping watch.

While Martin was still some distance off, the two boys rose and ran up
to their companion, smiling and pointing. Then all three climbed the
remaining steps and darted away.

Martin could not help smiling at the mischievous little fellows. They
had untied the painter, and set the boat adrift on the stream. It was
now floating down on the swift-running tide.

By the time it came opposite Martin it was already a dozen yards from
the shore. To his surprise he saw that it was not empty, as he had
supposed. In the bottom lay a dark bearded man with a red cap and an
orange jersey—the same man as Martin had seen at the same spot two or
three days before. He was fast asleep, just as he had been then. Neither
the action of the mischievous boys nor the motion of the stream had
awakened him.

“Hi! hi!” shouted Martin, fearing that the man might come to grief if
the boat struck against some larger vessel lower down.

But his cries did not awaken the sleeper, and Martin ran on to the
stairs; there was usually a boat belonging to one of his watermen
friends moored on the farther side; he would put off in her and catch up
with the drifting boat before she came to harm. But there was no boat at
hand.

“Well, never mind,” said Martin to himself. “I can’t help the
sleepy-head. I dare say he’ll be seen from some wherry or lighter. How
strange that he should be here again!”

He sat down with his back against the stone post, and idly watched the
boat as it rapidly drifted downstream. In a few minutes two men came
from behind the head of the stairs, and grumbled at the absence of the
watermen. Then one appeared, rowing his wherry from the opposite shore.
The men hailed him; he pulled in to the foot of the stairs, took on the
impatient passengers, and rowed away again, towards the city.

The dusk was gathering, and Martin was about to rise and go home when he
heard footsteps on the other side of him, and a voice say, angrily,

“The boat is not here!”

“I can’t wait,” said another voice, which Martin recognised at once as
Mr. Slocum’s. Instinctively he drew farther back into the shadow of the
post. “It would not be safe. You must hire a waterman.”

“There isn’t one to be seen,” said the first speaker. “There never is
when you want one.”

“No doubt one will come in a minute or two,” said Mr. Slocum.
“Good-night.”

The speaker had been hidden from Martin by the post. He heard Mr. Slocum
hurry away; then the other man came in sight and walked down the steps.
Under his arm he carried a small box.

“Old Slocum here again,” thought Martin. “It’s very strange.”

He was now so much interested that he decided to wait and see what
happened. The man was tall and swarthy, with a big red nose, and a beard
as black as the foreign seaman’s. As he sat on the stairs he muttered to
himself.

After a while a heavily-laden wherry approached from upstream. It
contained several passengers, laughing and singing noisily, and when
they disembarked and mounted the stairs Martin saw that they carried
baskets, and guessed that they were picknickers returning from a jaunt
to Chelsea or Battersea. The waterman was Jack Boulter, a friend of his.

The waiting stranger called to Boulter, demanding to be taken to
Deptford.

“Not me; not to-night,” said the waterman. “I’ve been out all day. I’m
going home.”

“But you must take me, I say,” the stranger protested. He raised his
voice, and Martin was surprised at a change in his accent. With Mr.
Slocum he had spoken like an Englishman, but now his utterance was
exactly that of a foreigner.

“What you say don’t matter,” returned Boulter, proceeding to tie up his
boat. “I won’t stir out again for no man.”

The stranger began to plead and coax and threaten, but to all his
excited words Boulter turned a deaf ear. Some impulse prompted Martin to
rise and walk down to the bottom of the stairs.

“I say, Boulter, let me take him to Deptford,” he said.

“It’s you, young master,” said Boulter. “Well, you’ve rowed my wherry
time and again, and I don’t mind if you do, so long as you promise to
tie her up when you get back.”

“Ah! You are kind. You are a friend,” said the foreigner. He produced a
shilling, and was handing it to Martin when Boulter reached forward and
took the coin.

“Thank’ee,” he said. “Young master will take ’ee quite safe, and I’ll
get along to the Pig and Whistle.”

In another minute Martin was pulling the wherry out into mid-stream. The
passenger sat in silence upon the stern thwart, still grasping his box.

There was now little traffic on the river. Here and there near the banks
barges were moored, and the spars of larger vessels were outlined
against the glooming sky. Glancing frequently over his shoulder Martin
steered a course clear of obstructions, and in no long time came within
sight of the Deptford shipyards.

Presently the passenger, who had not spoken a word, motioned Martin to
land him at a jetty jutting out from a quay along the wall of a house
overhanging the river. It had the appearance of an empty warehouse.

Martin was pulling round when the man changed his mind.

“No, not there,” he said. “Beyond; farther: at the stairs of Deptford.”

Martin sculled on, feeling that there was something mysterious about his
passenger. He seemed anxious, or excited.

The wherry was almost opposite to the Deptford stairs when a cry broke
from the passenger’s lips. Martin glanced round, and saw a boat
approaching swiftly. It contained a single man, pulling hard against the
tide.

Martin’s passenger stood up, and shouted angrily a few words in a
foreign tongue, which Martin could not understand. The man ceased
rowing, and turned his head, and Martin recognised him as the foreign
seaman whom he had seen a little while before asleep in the drifting
craft. Next moment he swung his boat round and rowed rapidly towards the
entrance of the repairing yard.

A few minutes later Martin landed his passenger at the foot of the
stairs. The man seemed to be in too great a hurry even to thank him. He
sped up the stairs and disappeared.

“I’ll have a little rest before I go back,” thought Martin.

He tied up the boat and strolled along by the edge of the repairing
dock. Only one vessel lay there, a three-master brig without her
mainmast, and it flashed into Martin’s memory that the waterman had told
him of a Portugal ship that had come in for repairs.

“Is that a Portugal vessel?” he asked a man who was lounging near by.

“Ay, Portugal she is,” was the reply. “Dismasted by a Frenchman in the
Channel. She’s not so foreign-looking as some Portugal ships I’ve seen,
but her crew—why, bless your life, they’re as pretty a set of
cut-throats as you’ve ever set eyes on.”




                          CHAPTER THE SEVENTH


                           A BLOW IN THE DARK

Martin found himself to be taking a rather unusual interest in this
Portugal ship. It was impossible in the dusk to see her lines clearly;
indeed, she was lying so low in the dock that even in the daylight one
could not have obtained a good view of her. And the shipwrights’ work
being over for the day, there was nothing going on upon her deck.

What interested Martin was not so much the vessel herself as the persons
with whom she seemed to be connected. There was the foreign seaman whom
he had twice seen waiting at the foot of the stairs. There was Mr.
Slocum, who had embarked on that seaman’s boat. And now there was this
third man, who had come with Mr. Slocum to the stairs, who spoke like an
Englishman and also like a foreigner, and who was evidently very well
known to the sleepy-headed seaman.

“There’s some mystery about all this,” Martin said to himself. “Mr.
Slocum said it wasn’t safe for him to wait about at the stairs. Why?
What reason can he have for coming or sending to this Portugal ship at
all? Has she jewels or plate among her cargo, and he’s buying them? But
why should he do it secretly?”

It was quite clear that he would not get answers to his questions by
staring at the vessel. Two or three swarthy men in outlandish costumes
were now moving about the deck: he heard their strange voices, so unlike
the sing-song of English sailors. The lighting of a lamp reminded him
that black night would soon lie upon the river.

“It’s time to be off,” he thought, and, turning about, he walked back
without hurry to his boat, cast her off, and began to pull out into
mid-stream.

The tide was now slack, just on the turn, and he was glad that he would
not have to row against the current.

He had taken no more than half a dozen strokes when the silence was
broken by loud shouts from the direction of the repairing yard. Turning
his head, he saw a small figure in the act of diving into the river from
a little jetty at the angle of the yard, and behind him a number of much
taller forms rushing along as if in pursuit.

It was so nearly dark that all these figures were only just visible. But
in a moment Martin was able to see a black head and two splashing arms
on the surface of the water. The swimmer was making straight across
towards the opposite bank.

He was seen also by the men on the jetty. With cries of excitement they
dashed back to the shore, and ran towards a boat that was drawn up on
the mud.

Martin had ceased rowing; his interest in the Portugal ship was whetted
anew, for surely those excitable men were foreigners from that vessel.
Who was the fugitive?

As he rested on his oars he noticed that the swimmer had suddenly
changed his course, and was coming with swift over-hand strokes straight
for the boat. Meanwhile, the pursuers had hauled their boat off the mud,
got afloat, and were now pulling hard in the same direction.

Martin felt a throb of excitement as he watched the chase. By this time
he realised that the fugitive was swimming to him for help, and he
checked the motion of his boat, which had been drifting slowly on the
turning tide, and edged it towards the swimmer.

Next moment a hand shot out of the water and grasped the gunwale. The
second hand followed. Then a husky, spluttering voice whispered:

“Take me in, quick! They will catch me.”

Martin was thrilled when he saw that the speaker was a boy, a little
younger than himself, as he guessed. Without reasoning, acting on a
natural impulse, he shipped his oars, and trimming the boat as well as
he could by lying across it, managed with some difficulty to help the
little fellow to clamber in.

“Quick! They will catch me,” gasped the boy again as he sank exhausted
into the bottom of the boat.

In a moment Martin had the oars in the rowlocks and began to pull with
all his strength. He caught sight of the pursuing boat forging out of
the darkness, and the shouts of the men aboard her told him that they
had seen what had happened to the boy.

Spurred on by the angry menace of their voices, he bent to his oars with
a will. He had seen a look of terror in the boy’s eyes as he climbed
into the boat, and afterwards he remembered, what he had not consciously
observed at the time, that the boy’s skin was dark, though his features
were not those of a Negro.

But Martin did not look at the boy as he lay in the boat. His whole
attention was concentrated on the pursuers. His heart sank; they were
gaining on him. How could it be otherwise? The Thames wherry of those
days was a heavy lumbering craft, and a half-grown boy could not hope to
outrow the two men who were urging their boat along with strong,
sweeping strokes.

He heard encouraging cries from the third man who sat in the stern, and
as the pursuing boat gained on him yard by yard, he saw with a strange
thrill, in spite of the darkness, that this man was the mysterious
bearded passenger whom he had rowed down the river an hour before.

Without knowing why, this recognition urged him to still greater
exertions. But the strain was telling upon his muscles; already they
were aching almost to numbness. Yet he rowed on and on, doggedly, not
dropping his sculls until the other boat sheered up alongside, and one
of the men, swinging round the butt of his oar, dealt Martin a blow that
sent him backward off his thwart. His head struck the thwart behind, and
he lay doubled up between the two, stunned.

How long he remained thus he never knew. When he came to himself,
conscious of a stiff back and an aching head, and raised himself, he
found that he was alone in the boat, which was drifting towards the mud
flats on the Surrey shore.

He looked around; the other boat, the fugitive boy, the pursuers, all
had disappeared.

“Where am I?” he thought.

There were few lights on the banks; in the darkness he could not
recognise his whereabouts. Seizing his sculls, he rowed slowly,
painfully, across the stream towards the northern shore. Presently, in
the distance, he caught sight of dim lights stretching across the river,
and knew that they shone from the houses on London Bridge.

With a sigh he swung the boat about, and pulled still more slowly
against the running tide, keeping close to the shore. It seemed hours
before he came to the well-known stairs. He tied up the boat and then
deliberated.

“Shall I go and tell Boulter what’s happened? He’ll be at the Pig and
Whistle: I’d better go home.”

Dragging himself along, more distressed at his failure to save the boy
than at his own injuries, he reached his house, groped stumblingly down
the dark stairs, and found Susan Gollop placidly knitting.

“Why, sakes alive, what’s come to you?” she cried, as the candlelight
fell upon his pale face.

“I’ve hurt my head,” he replied, dropping into a chair.

“There! If my thumbs didn’t prick!” she exclaimed. “I knew something had
happened to you, you’re so late. I said to Gollop: ‘That boy’s got into
mischief, and you can’t deny it.’ Now just you sit still and let me look
at the place and tell me all about it.”

The good woman lifted his hair gently.

“Gracious me! A lump as big as a duck’s egg,” she cried. “You’ve been
fighting again, I’ll be bound, though I’d have thought——”

“Don’t be a goose, Susan,” Martin interrupted. “If I’d fought, the bump
would have been in front. I was hit a foul blow, and I’ll tell you.”

Susan Gollop was more tender in action than in speech. She bathed the
wounded head and bound it up with a strip of linen, while Martin
recounted the events of the evening.

“Dear, dear! Well, I’m sure! Poor little boy! Oh, the wretch!” she
exclaimed at points of the story.

“Well, I never did hear the like,” she said at the end. “That Slocum:
it’s my belief he’s doing something he’s ashamed of, or ought to be,
drat him! It’s a mercy you don’t work for him any more. And the other
man; would you know him again? For you must tell Gollop all about it,
and he’ll take the wretch up and see what the magistrates have to say to
him.”

“Yes, I’d know him again,” Martin replied. “I couldn’t forget his big
red nose and his beard as black as your saucepan.”

“That’s strange,” said the woman thoughtfully.

“What’s strange?”

“Why, if I didn’t see just such a one this very day! Ay, and in this
very street. He passed me as I came back from shopping! ‘That’s a red
coal in a black grate,’ thinks I, and indeed he was a fearsome-looking
creature.”

“I wonder what he was doing about here?”

“Ah! Who knows? But don’t bother your head about him any more. Get you
to your bed, and I hope the bump’ll be flatter by the morning.”




                           CHAPTER THE EIGHTH


                         THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

At breakfast next morning Martin expected to have to tell his story over
again to Dick Gollop, who had been out on duty half the night. But the
moment he entered the room, with his head still bandaged, the constable
took the wind out of his sails.

“Ahoy, shipmate!” he said, “how’s the weather? By what I hear you’ve run
through a bit of a squall.”

“You know, then?” said Martin.

“Know! Of course I know. When my watch was over, somewhere about four
bells, and I came below dead-beat and turned in, d’you think I could get
any sleep? Not a wink, believe me. There was my old woman wide-awake,
and bursting with the news.

“‘Gollop,’ says she, ‘there’s rogues and rascals in the world.’ That
being no news at all, I just gave a grunt and began to snore. ‘Listen to
me,’ says she, ‘and don’t pretend.’ What you can’t help, put up with. So
I listened, always ready to oblige, and out it came, like a flood over a
weir.

“I own I dozed one or twice afore she was well under way, but I was fair
shook up when she’d got her canvas full spread. You take my meaning?
I’ve fought with a cutlass, and I’ve knocked down a swabber with a
marline-spike, but never in my born days have I hit a man with an oar;
there’s something uncommon about that, and as a constable I took note of
it.

“Foreign ways, to be sure. Them fellows in the boat must have been some
of the crew of that Portugal ship.”

“Not the big-nosed man with the black beard,” said Martin. “I’m sure he
was an Englishman.”

“Maybe, but I ask you, what was he doing along with those foreigners?
And what’s his ploy with Slocum?”

“Ay, and why come along this very street?” Susan put in.

“There you go!” said Dick. “I’ve seen many a big nose, also red, _and_
black beards, likewise many tabby cats. You can’t tell one from t’other
unless you’ve studied ’em. I see a tabby in one place; you see one in
another; that don’t make ’em the same.”

“What’s cats got to do with it?” protested Susan.

“Nothing,” said Dick. “All I say is, if I took up a man just because
he’d a big red nose and a black beard the magistrates would call me a
fool, and belike I’d have to pay damages, and then where’d you be?”

“Then why talk about cats?” said Susan. “And tabbies! Now if you’d said
black cats——”

“Drat the cats!” cried the constable. “You’ll go on about ’em till
you’re tired, I suppose. Martin, what I say is, keep your weather-eye
open, and if so be as you spy that black-haired fellow again, keep him
in sight, my lad, and inform an officer of the law.”

A tapping was heard on the banisters at the head of the stairs.

“There’s Mounseer, Lucy,” said Susan, “waiting to take you to school.”

The little girl sprang up; she liked her morning walk with the old
Frenchman. She ran up the stairs, but returned in a few moments.

“Mounseer says will you please lend him a hammer and chisel,” she said.

“Willing, and anything else,” said Gollop. “But ask him if I can do the
hammering for him. I’ve been reckoned a handy man in my time; you have
to turn your hand to any odd job at sea.”

The girl gave the message and returned.

“Mounseer says it’s a trifle, and he won’t trouble you!”

“Very well then; take him the things, and welcome.”

The Frenchman laid the tools on a chair in his room, then locked the
door and started with Lucy for the half-mile walk to her school.

Soon afterwards Gollop and Martin went out together, the former to take
his morning draught with his cronies, the latter to make another effort
to find work.

In his pocket he carried some bread and cheese, so that he need not come
home for the mid-day meal.

All through the hot summer day he wandered about, seeking employment. In
the evening he returned and reported that he had again met with no
success.

“Never mind,” said Susan. “Things will take a turn. Now, just run
upstairs and ask Mounseer for that hammer. I want it to knock some nails
in Lucy’s cupboard, so as she can hang up her things tidy. Tell him he
shall have it back if he hasn’t done with it, but he’s been banging
nearly all day, so I dare say he has.”

On reaching the Frenchman’s door Martin saw that a staple had been
fitted to one of the side joists, evidently to receive a padlock. From
within the room came the sound of knocking. He tapped on the door; the
sound ceased and Mounseer asked:

“Who is there?”

“It’s me, sir,” said Martin.

“Ah, you, my young friend. Wait but one little moment.”

The bolts were drawn inside, the door was opened, and there stood
Mounseer in his shirt-sleeves, chisel in hand. Martin gave his message.

“But yes; assuredly: I ask pardon for keeping it so long. But you see,
one must be careful. My lock was broken by that villain; therefore I
must make other defences.”

Martin noticed that an iron socket for a bar was fitted to the inside of
the door, and the bar itself, a stout baulk of wood, was leaning against
the wall.

“Pouf! It is hot,” the Frenchman went on, “though I take off my coat and
open the window. A little rest will be agreeable. But I ask for the
hammer again, until I finish; I wish to finish this night.”

Promising to bring the hammer back in a few minutes Martin went down to
the basement. But it was more than half an hour later, and dusk was
already falling, before he was able to return: Susan’s job had taken
longer than he had expected.

This time there was no answer to his tap on Mounseer’s door, nor any
sound from within. He waited awhile, then tapped again. A sleepy voice
asked who was there, and when Martin was at last admitted, the old
gentleman apologised for the delay.

“It is the terrible heat,” he said, spreading out his hands. “I fall
asleep; I am old, and the labour fatigues me. How I would like to be
young, like you! Labour is light for the young.”

“But I can’t get any work, sir,” said Martin.

“Courage, my young friend. It will come. Seat yourself, and tell me
where you go to-day; I am very much interested.”

Sitting on a chair facing the open window, Martin began to relate his
wanderings of the day, while the Frenchman took the hammer and chisel
and worked away at the bar of wood by the light of a candle.

While Martin was speaking he fancied he saw something move just outside
the window. Though somewhat startled, he had the presence of mind to go
on with his story, and a few moments afterwards was astonished to see a
hat appear above the edge of the window-sill, at a corner.

It rose slowly; the dim light of the candle at the farther end of the
room showed him a man’s face—a face seamed with a scar across the
temple. So great was his surprise at recognising one of the men who had
tried to steal his parcel that he jumped up with a sudden cry.

Instantly the face disappeared, and by the time Martin and the Frenchman
reached the window the man was half-way down the gutter-pipe up which he
had climbed.

With amazing quickness Mounseer seized a three-legged stool and hurled
it down. It missed the man by an inch or two, and fell with a crash upon
the ground. In another second the man dropped beside it and bolted
across the open space into the darkness.

“What is the matter?” asked a voice from above.

Looking up, Martin saw Mr. Seymour, the occupant of the upper floor,
leaning over his window-sill.

“A matter of no consequence,” said the Frenchman, drawing Martin back
into the room. “I must close the shutters,” he went on, “though it will
be very hot. But I do not like the curious people.”

“That face belonged to one of the men who tried to rob me,” said Martin.
“It is strange he should have come to the house where I live, for I’ve
nothing worth stealing here. I’ll describe him to Gollop, and he’ll
circulate the description, and someone will arrest the fellow.”

“Not for me, my friend,” said the Frenchman. “I, a stranger, would not
give trouble. And indeed my best protection is not in the Law, but in a
few stout bolts and my lifelong friend yonder.”

He pointed to his rapier, hanging on the wall.

It was clear to Martin that the Frenchman wished to be alone, so he said
Good-night and went downstairs. On the way he was struck by a curious
circumstance. According to Susan Gollop, Mounseer had been hammering all
day; why then was there so little sign of it? All that he had done would
have been the work of only an hour or two. But perhaps the old gentleman
was not expert with tools.




                           CHAPTER THE NINTH


                      AN ADVENTURE IN PUDDING LANE

Next morning, when the time came for Lucy to start for school, the
Frenchman said that he felt a little indisposed, and would not venture
out in the heat.

“I’ll take her,” said Martin. “But I can’t promise to bring her back,
because I’m going in search of work again, and I don’t know where I’ll
be when school is over.”

“Don’t you worry, my lad,” said Susan. “Dick will be home then, and he
can fetch the child for once. And I hope you’ll get a job to-day, for it
makes a difference not having your few shillings at the weekend.”

When he had left his sister at the door of the dame’s school, Martin
stood for a minute or two undecided as to the way he would go in his
hunt for work.

He was feeling rather disheartened. It was the first time Susan Gollop
had said a word to hint that he was a burden to her, and in his pride he
was determined that she should never have another occasion for any
remark of the sort.

Up to the present his applications for a job had been made at the larger
places of business—establishments that would rank equal with Mr.
Greatorex’s shop in Cheapside. But it was no time to pick and choose; he
would take the meanest job that offered itself, no matter what it was.

It occurred to him that he might have better success if he crossed the
river and made inquiries at the Hop Market in Southwark. In the course
of his walk towards London Bridge he was crossing Pudding Lane, a narrow
street near Billingsgate, when he was almost thrown down by the sudden
impact of a strange figure that darted out of a baker’s shop at the
corner.

“Steady!” he cried, putting up his hands to protect himself.

The figure recoiled, then without a word of excuse or explanation dashed
down the lane. Martin laughed; he had never seen a more comical object
than this boy, a little bigger than himself, who was covered with flour,
and whose head was almost concealed in a large mass of dough.

His amusement was increased when he saw a second figure issue from the
shop—the figure of a short, stout man, he too cased in dough and flour
from head to foot. The baker set off at a toddling scamper after the
boy, their course marked on the cobblestones with a white trail.

In a few moments the pursuer recognised that his chase was hopeless. The
boy, indeed, had turned the corner and was out of sight by the time his
master had run half a dozen paces.

“The young villain!” cried the man, stopping short and shaking his fist
in the direction of the vanished fugitive.

He turned back towards the shop, picking at the dough that clung to his
hair and beard, spluttering and muttering curses the while. As he was
passing Martin a mass of the loosened dough fell over his eyes, and for
a moment he tottered like a blind man.

Martin sprang to his side, held him steady, and helped him to rid
himself of some of the dough, which hung in long clammy strips about his
face, like the curls of a full-bottomed wig.

“Ugh! Ugh!” gasped the baker. “The insolent young ruffian! Thank you!
Thank you! My hair is short, or—— The young viper! ’Tis a mercy none
of the neighbours have seen my plight. Quick, boy; lead me. I can
scarcely see my own shop door!”

Martin took him by the arm and led him the few paces to his shop. On the
sign hanging above the door were the words: “Faryner, Baker to His
Majesty the King.”

Within the shop Martin stayed to give further assistance to the angry
baker, who intermingled abuse of the runaway boy with explanations, half
to himself, and half to Martin.

“The whelp!” he exclaimed. “He comes late, and when I tax him, is saucy,
scandalously saucy. ’Twould try the patience of a saint, and I’m no
saint. Must silence his chattering tongue. Up with a pan of dough; dab
it on the rascal’s head.

“The impudence of the knave! What does he do but snatch up another pan
and empty it over me—me, a master baker, baker to the King, contractor
to the Admiralty, purveyor to half the nobility and gentry. Ay, and
flings a bag of flour at me. What do you think of that? What is the
world coming to?”

Martin did not venture to say what he thought.

“Well, he’ll never darken my doors again, that’s certain. And that
reminds me. There’s his basket—the loaves ought to have been delivered
an hour ago. I was already one boy short, and the rascal knew it, and
yet he came late. I shall lose some of my best customers.”

The greater part of the sticky mass had now been plucked from the
baker’s head. He looked ruefully at the basket of loaves in a corner of
the shop, scratched his head, became conscious that there were still
some fragments of dough adhering to his short-clipped hair, and burst
out again into violent denunciation of his errand boy.

On the impulse of the moment Martin spoke up.

“I’ll take the basket. I’m out of a job.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the baker, looking at him keenly as if he was only just
aware of him. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Martin Leake.”

“Are you honest?”

“Won’t you try me?”

“That’s not a bad answer. You’ve done me a service and I like the look
of you. I’ll try you. Here’s a list of the customers these loaves are to
be delivered to. Set off at once. Nay, wait! I don’t like changes. If I
try you, and you satisfy me, I shall expect you to stick to the job.
Five shillings a week and a loaf a day. That’s my wages.”

“I’ll be glad to earn that to begin with,” said Martin.

“Then that’s a bargain. Don’t loiter.”

Martin took the basket on his arm, and as he went out he heard the baker
mutter:

“How shall I get rid of the rest of this plaguey dough? The young
ruffian!”

Scanning the list of customers given him, Martin was interested to find
at the bottom the name of Mr. Slocum, at the goldsmith’s shop in
Cheapside. The idea of meeting his old master was not at all pleasant,
but he reflected that if he went to the back entrance, from a yard
leading out of Bow Lane, he would probably avoid such a meeting, and see
only the housekeeper or the cook, who had both been on friendly terms
with him.

“I’m glad it’s the last on the list,” he thought. “But I wish I hadn’t
to go there at all. What strange fate is always bringing me into contact
with old Slocum? I don’t like it. There’s something mysterious about
it.”

And it was with a strange feeling of misgiving that he trudged on with
his heavy load of bread.




                           CHAPTER THE TENTH


                          A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR

Martin’s first hour’s experience as baker’s boy was by no means
pleasant. Mr. Faryner’s customers had been kept waiting for their
morning rolls and loaves, and at nearly every house where Martin called
he was received with dark looks and cutting words.

He took it all in good part, explained that he was a new boy, and
promised to be earlier on the morrow. As the basket became lighter he
grew more cheerful, and by the time he reached Bow Lane he had almost
forgotten the forebodings with which he had started.

Turning into the yard by which he would reach the back entrance to Mr.
Slocum’s house he suddenly collided with a boy coming in the opposite
direction. He was turning round; the basket was jerked off his arm, and
the two loaves it contained rolled out on the cobblestones.

“Now, clumsy, why don’t you look where you are going?” said a
well-remembered voice.

Martin had already recognised his old opponent, the apprentice through
whom he had been dismissed. He was himself recognised before he could
say a word in reply, and for a moment or two the boys stared at each
other. Then the apprentice laughed.

“Dash my eyes!” he said. “Do I see Martin Leake?”

Without waiting for an answer he swooped on the loaves, picked them up,
rubbed the dust off on his breeches, and rushed back into the open
doorway of the house.

“Sally, here’s Martin Leake turned baker’s boy,” Martin heard him shout.

In a few seconds he came out again followed by the cook with the loaves
in her hands. Martin had picked up his basket, and was standing just
outside the door.

“Well I never!” exclaimed the cook, who had always been well disposed
towards Martin. “So you are working for Faryner, are you? I was
wondering what had come to the boy. Mr. Slocum is in a towering rage
because he’s been kept waiting for his breakfast. I’ll just send up the
bread, then I’ll come back, Master Hopton; mind you that.”

She retreated into the house, and the boys were left at the door. They
stood looking at each other awkwardly. Martin bore Hopton no malice; on
the other hand he could not feel friendly towards him, and had not the
cook asked him to remain he would have walked away.

“Slocum’s a terror,” said the apprentice suddenly.

Martin did not reply.

“Sent me out to buy a loaf,” Hopton went on. “You saved me a journey.”

This did not appear to call for an answer. There was silence again for a
few moments.

“I say, I’m sorry I got you turned out,” said Hopton, awkwardly.

“You needn’t be,” said Martin, surprised. “I wouldn’t come back again
for anything.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m sick of Slocum and his tempers. Does Faryner pay
you well?”

“Now what’s that to do with you, Master Hopton?” said the cook,
returning. “Just you run back to the shop, or you’ll get into trouble.”

“All right, Sally,” said the apprentice, grinning. He gave Martin a
friendly wink as he turned into the house.

“So you have made up your quarrels,” said the cook.

“I’m not sure that we have,” replied Martin, with a smile. “But he’s
very friendly. I wonder why?”

“He wishes he were you, I daresay, instead of being bound to Mr. Slocum
for seven years. To Mr. Slocum, says I, though ’tis really to Mr.
Greatorex. Ah! I wish the old master had never left the City. What
things are coming to I don’t know. Mr. Slocum’s cursing and cuffing
those apprentices from morning till night, and you’re lucky to be out of
it.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Goodness alone knows! It’s my belief he has something on his mind,
but—— There he is, bawling for me. Don’t let him see you. Coming, sir,
coming!”

Martin hurried away, feeling more than ever glad that he was no longer
in Mr. Slocum’s service, and wondering whether his old employer’s ill
temper was connected in any way with his mysterious doings on the
riverside.

Another round, in a different part of the city, occupied part of the
afternoon, and Martin had to clean out the shop before he left for home.
Again it had been a very hot day, and he was more tired than he had ever
been before; so tired, indeed, that he was not inclined to talk about
his new job.

“’Tis a come-down, to be sure, for a master mariner’s son,” said Dick
Gollop; “but what you can’t help, make the best of.”

“Now don’t you go for to dishearten the lad, with your come-downs,” said
Susan. “’Tis honest and useful, and we shan’t have to buy so much
bread.”

Weary though he was, Martin that night found it impossible to sleep. His
room was small and felt like an oven, though he had opened the window
and the door, and thrown off all the bedclothes.

The senses of a sleepless person are extraordinarily acute, and as the
hours dragged on Martin became annoyed at the regular snores of Susan
Gollop in the room beyond. Dick happened to be out on night duty again.
For a long time the only other sounds Martin heard were the footsteps of
Mr. Seymour as he went along the passage above and up the stairs to his
room.

“He’s very late home,” thought Martin.

He heard the lodger shut his door; then all was silent again until a new
sound, outside his window, caught his ear. It was a slight thud, such as
would be made by a small object falling on the ground, and he might
hardly have noticed it had not recent events made him heedful and
suspicious.

Rising from his bed he tiptoed on bare feet to the window and looked
out, taking care to keep out of sight himself. It was a starry night,
and he saw a dark patch against the sky—the form of a man standing on
the square of waste ground above the basement level.

His thoughts flew to the man who had climbed the gutter pipe to the old
Frenchman’s room, and his heart began to beat more quickly. Then he
heard whispering voices. The man was evidently talking to someone on one
of the upper floors. Only a few words were spoken, then the man walked
quickly away.

Martin was relieved; it seemed that there was to be no further attack on
the Frenchman’s room. But he was also puzzled. Who was the man? Why
should anyone come in the dead of night to the back of the house and
talk to one of the inmates? And to whom had he spoken? It must be either
Mounseer or Mr. Seymour.

Still listening and watching, Martin suddenly heard the stairs creak.
More than ever puzzled, and a little alarmed, he stole out into the
passage. There were now footsteps in the hall above. He crept up the
basement stairs on hands and knees, and noticed a dim flickering light
upon the wall.

At the top of the staircase he bent low and peeped round. A smoky candle
was guttering on the hall floor. The front door was partly open, and
Martin saw the back of a man in nightcap and dressing-gown, talking to
someone outside.

“Mr. Seymour!” said Martin to himself. “It’s too tall for Mounseer.”

“The sloop is in the river,” said a husky voice. “It’s too risky. You
had better take it.”

“If I must, I must!” replied Mr. Seymour, in a low tone.

He opened the door a little farther. Martin felt strangely excited. A
mysterious visitor to Mr. Seymour; a sloop in the river; some risky
enterprise; something that Mr. Seymour was to take; all these
circumstances sharpened his curiosity and caused him to strain eyes and
ears.

The two men between them carried a heavy object into the hall. Martin
could not see what it was, nor could he see the features of the visitor.
Mr. Seymour was between them and the light.

“Remember you’ll have to account to me,” said the stranger in the same
low, husky tone.

“If you don’t trust me,” replied Mr. Seymour impatiently, “take it
away!”

“Trust you—oh, yes!” was the answer, with a slight gurgle of laughter.
“But I thought I might as well remind you. That’s all. Good-night!”

He turned his back and went out into the darkness, Mr. Seymour gently
closing the door behind him. And then Martin saw that the object on the
floor was a square box, brass-bound at the corners.

Mr. Seymour shot the bolt without noise, shouldered the box, which
appeared to be of considerable weight, then looked at the candle.

“Confound it!” he muttered, frowning.

Martin guessed that he was annoyed because, laden with the box, he could
not stoop to lift the candle.

Slowly, taking every step cautiously, he carried the box up the first
staircase, across the landing, and then up the staircase to his own
room. In a minute he returned, picked up the candle, and ascended once
more.

Martin’s heart was thumping as he crept down to his room again, and it
was almost morning before he at last fell asleep.




                          CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH


                            MR. SLOCUM AGAIN

Having to be early at his new job, Martin was hurried in the morning.
When he left after a quick breakfast, Dick Gollop was still a-bed; he
had only returned from his night duty about five o’clock. So Martin had
no opportunity of telling the constable of the strange incident he had
witnessed in the night, and he refrained from mentioning it to the
others for fear of alarming them.

He was still greatly puzzled, and his mind was full of the matter as he
walked to Mr. Faryner’s shop in Pudding Lane. There was no reason why
Mr. Seymour should not have a box delivered to him. But why had the
messenger come secretly by night? What was the danger? And what was the
meaning of the mysterious reference to the sloop in the river?

These questions were driven from his thoughts for a time by his work.
Mr. Faryner praised him for coming punctually, gave him a few odd jobs
to do, and then sent him out on the morning round.

In due course he arrived at the goldsmith’s house, and once more made
his way to the back entrance. Leaving his basket just inside the door,
he took the four loaves intended for Mr. Slocum’s household up the
stairs to the kitchen on the first floor.

Passing the hall landing, he noticed that the door of a small room which
was usually kept locked now stood ajar. The fact did not arouse any
particular curiosity, and he went on to the kitchen and handed the bread
to the friendly cook.

“I’m glad you are early,” she said, “though it wouldn’t have mattered so
much this morning. The master isn’t up yet. He was out late last night,
and I warrant will be in a rare tantrum when he wakes. And how do you
like your new work?”

“Better when I’ve finished than when I begin,” replied Martin, smiling.
“The basket is very heavy at the start, and it makes me very tired this
hot weather.”

“Never mind; it’s something to be working for the King’s baker, and I
hope you’ll get on. There now! What did I say!”

Mr. Slocum had just called “Sally!” from below stairs, and his voice
certainly sounded far from good-tempered.

“Coming, sir,” the cook answered, and hurried to the head of the
staircase.

“I want you to go at once to the dairyman’s in Milk Street and complain
of the mouldy cheese he sent me. Tell him it’s not fit for pigs, and if
he can’t serve me better I’ll deal elsewhere.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sally. “I’ll just fetch my shawl.”

“Nonsense, woman; you don’t need your shawl a hot day like this. Get
away at once, and be sure you don’t mince matters.”

Martin heard Mr. Slocum’s loud angry tones distinctly. The cook hurried
downstairs, her master talking at her all the time. As soon as she had
left the house Mr. Slocum dashed up the stairs, and Martin realised that
his retreat was cut off. He had no fear of his old employer, but was not
at all eager to meet him.

By the time Mr. Slocum reached the kitchen door, Martin had stepped back
into the shelter afforded by the jutting corner of a large cupboard. Mr.
Slocum came in hurriedly, turned the key in the door, and went straight
across the room to another door that led into a passage and thence into
his private room.

Martin waited, undecided whether to go at once or to remain until he was
sure the coast was clear. Just as he was on the point of moving he heard
Mr. Slocum returning, and thought it better to stay where he was.

The goldsmith’s movements were much slower now, and when he came into
view Martin had a shock of surprise. The man was carrying a box,
brass-bound at the corners, exactly like the box which had been
delivered to Mr. Seymour the previous night. He passed across the
kitchen, unlocked the door, and began to descend the stairs.

Martin felt trapped. He was lucky in having escaped notice so far; he
could hardly hope not to be observed if Mr. Slocum returned. And hearing
Mr. Slocum enter the room on the half-landing he hurried after him on
tip-toe, hoping to slip by unseen.

Just as he reached the half-landing Mr. Slocum, empty-handed, came out
of the little room, shutting the door behind him. Martin bent, and tried
to dash by; but Mr. Slocum heard him, turned quickly, shot out his hand
and caught him by the tail of his coat.

“Who on earth are you?” cried the goldsmith. “No use wriggling; I have
you fast.” And then, as he caught sight of Martin’s face: “You! You
scoundrel! Where have you come from? What business have you here? Didn’t
I tell you never to show your face again?”

“I am working for Mr. Faryner, and have just brought your bread,” Martin
replied.

“Then what are you hanging about for? Why are you hiding in my house?”

“The cook was called away before she had time to pay me.”

“And you are skulking here, stealing for all I know. I’ll send for a
constable, and give you in charge on suspicion of loitering with the
intention of committing a felony.”

“You may do that if you please, Mr. Slocum,” said Martin with spirit.
“But you have nothing against me, and you will look rather silly.”

At this Mr. Slocum lifted his left hand to clout Martin, who took
advantage of a slight relaxing of the grip of the other hand to wrench
himself away and leap down the stairs. He picked up his basket and fled
out into the yard, leaving Mr. Slocum shouting threats and curses behind
him.

The sequel to this unlucky meeting was seen later in the day. On
returning from his afternoon round Martin found that Mr. Slocum had sent
a message to the baker, saying that if the new errand boy was sent again
to the house he would transfer his custom.

“You were impudent, I suppose,” said Mr. Faryner, “and you won’t suit
me, and that’s a pity, for I’d taken a fancy to you. It’s a lesson to me
to make inquiries before I hire a boy.”

Martin thought it was high time to give his employer a little
information. He related the morning’s incident, not mentioning the box;
some instinct prompted him to keep that to himself.

“There was nothing much to be angry about,” said the baker. “Have you
told me everything?”

“I haven’t told you that I was once in Mr. Slocum’s employment, and he
dismissed me for——”

“Impudence? Confess now.”

“No, sir; for fighting one of the apprentices.”

“Bless me, I’ve done that myself,” said Mr. Faryner, with a laugh. “But
come now, I can’t afford to lose a good customer. I daren’t send you on
that round again. Let me see.”

He stuck his hands into his belt and looked questioningly at Martin.

“Can you row a boat?” he asked.

“I’ve done it often,” said Martin. “My father was a sea-captain, and
I’ve helped my friends among the watermen more than once.”

“Capital! Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put another boy on your
round, and I’ll give you the river. You’ll take supplies to the ships in
the Pool. What do you say to that?”

“I’ll say thank you, sir; I shall like it very much.”

“Very well, then. You see, I’ve taken a fancy to you.”




                          CHAPTER THE TWELFTH


                          THE BRASS-BOUND BOX

When Martin reached home that evening he told his friends of the
approaching change in his work that was due to Mr. Slocum. Susan
Gollop’s red cheeks grew redder as she listened to him.

“That Slocum is a monster!” she cried indignantly. “I’d like to give him
a piece of my mind, that I would!”

“Now don’t you go putting your oar in, my woman,” said the constable. “I
don’t like the man, but he was within his rights in turning out of the
house the boy he dismissed for misbehaviour——”

“Misbehaviour, indeed!” Susan interrupted. “What’s his own behaviour
like? Tell me that. Mr. Greatorex ought to know what a temper the man
has got, and if he didn’t live so far away I’d tell him myself. Martin
shall write it down for me, being no scholar myself, and we’ll send Mr.
Greatorex a letter.”

“Avast there!” said Dick. “Look at it sensible, Sue. Mr. Greatorex is
the owner of the ship, so to put it, and he’s made Slocum captain.
’Tain’t for us to question his right so to do. And d’you think he’s
going to bother his head about the ship’s boy?”

“What ship’s boy?”

“Why, Martin, of course. In a manner of speaking he was the ship’s boy
aboard that craft.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed Susan. “You and your ship’s boy—and
Martin the son of a captain _and_ owner! Gollop, I wonder at your
ignorance.”

“Well, my dear, what you can’t help, make the best of. Let things alone,
that’s what I say, and maybe Martin’ll never meet Slocum again, and so
it won’t matter.”

Martin was not long in deciding that Mr. Slocum had really done him a
good turn. He liked his new job—to deliver bread to the ships in the
Pool. Their officers, coming into harbour after long voyages, were glad
to get a change from the hard, mouldy, and often worm-bitten biscuit
which they had to put up with at sea. Mr. Faryner’s excellent loaves
found a ready sale among them.

At least once, sometimes twice, a day Martin rowed out from the steps
below London Bridge to the vessels that lay against the wharves or at
anchor in the river. Sometimes he would send up his bread in a basket
lowered over the side; sometimes, after tying his painter to the anchor
chains, he would himself swarm up a rope ladder to the deck. Now and
then he had to scramble across the lighters surrounding a vessel that
was taking in or discharging cargo.

He found all this thoroughly interesting and enjoyable. It was much
easier to carry his basket in a boat than to carry it on his arm. He
liked to meet and chat with the jolly sailor-men and to see the insides
of the ships whose outsides he knew so well. If he could not go to sea
himself, he felt that the next best thing was to have something to do
with those who did, even if it were only supplying them with bread.

And he was well satisfied with his change of masters. Mr. Faryner, he
found, was just as quick-tempered as Mr. Slocum, but he was not mean or
spiteful or unjust.

One Saturday when Martin had made a slight mistake in accounting for the
money he had received from customers, the baker flew into a rage.

“You’re either a ninny or a rascal!” he cried. “And I don’t know which
is worse. Can’t you add two and two? You’re no good to me. Boys are the
plague of my life, none of them any good. If they’re not saucy they’re
stupid, and if they’re not stupid they’re——. Here, get out of my
sight, and don’t stare at me as if I were a fat pig at a fair!”

Martin was careful to keep out of the angry man’s way, and wondered
whether, when he received his week’s wages, he would be told to find
another job. To his surprise Mr. Faryner seemed to have forgotten the
matter that had upset him.

“Here you are, my lad,” he said, as he handed Martin his five shillings.
“And you had better take two loaves home to-night instead of one; there
are some over, and they’ll be too stale to sell by Monday.”

Like many another quick-tempered man’s, Mr. Faryner’s bark was worse
than his bite.

When Martin got home that evening he found Susan Gollop in a great state
of excitement.

“I don’t know what’s coming to us all,” she said. “Only think of it!
When Mounseer came back from his walk this afternoon he found his room
all upside-down and higgledy-piggledy, and me in the house all the time,
and never heard a sound!”

“What happened?” asked Martin, remembering the former attempts on the
Frenchman’s room.

“Why, someone got in, front or back, I don’t know how, and picked his
padlock, and rummaged the room, forced open his cupboard, slit up his
mattress, and even ripped the lining of his coat on the peg.”

“But why? What were they seeking?” Martin asked in his amazement. “He
seems to have nothing valuable except his sword.”

“Ah! That’s what puzzles me. And what’s more, Mounseer didn’t seem very
upset when he came in and found everything topsy-turvy. He just looked
round the room, and then he smiled—fancy that; smiled!—as if it was
just a muddle made by children.

“‘You take it easy, sir,’ says I, and he gave his shoulders a shrug—you
know his way—and said, ‘Be so good, madam’—he called me madam—‘to
help me arrange.’ And when we were in the middle of putting things
straight, who should come in but Mr. Seymour.

“‘Dear me!’ says he, all astonished like, ‘what in the world is the
matter?’ And just as I was opening my mouth, Mounseer took me up short.
‘Nothing in the world, sir,’ says he, ‘I thank you!’ And he goes
straight to the door and shuts it in Mr. Seymour’s face.

“I was fair took aback; where were his French manners? Always so polite
to me, calling me madam and all, and yet almost rude to Mr. Seymour!

“Mounseer must have took a dislike to him, that’s all I can say, and
very queer it is, for Mr. Seymour is a nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman,
with always a ‘Good-day, Mrs. Gollop!’ or ‘Very warm, Mrs. Gollop!’
whenever I meet him on the stairs.”

Martin said nothing to this, though recent incidents had made him
uncomfortable, and inclined to share in Mounseer’s evident distrust of
the mysterious lodger on the top floor. His doubts were deepened by
something that happened that very night.

He was disturbed from a sound sleep by slight noises from the waste land
at the rear of the house. They were louder than they had been on the
previous occasion, and he guessed that the man below had had more
difficulty in attracting Mr. Seymour’s attention.

But things happened as before. There was a short, murmured exchange of
words between the two men; the speaker below went away, Mr. Seymour came
with scarcely a sound down the stairs. Martin reached his post near the
top of the basement staircase in time to hear the same husky voice
outside the front door say: “The sloop is back in the river.”

Again Mr. Seymour opened the door wide, and the other man brought in a
brass-bound box.

“It’s heavier this time,” said Mr. Seymour. “You must give me a hand
with it upstairs.”

“It’s not safe. You’ve got slippers; my sea-boots make too much noise.”

“Take them off, and walk in your stockings!” said Mr. Seymour,
impatiently.

The other man growled, but came forward, set the box on the floor, and
sat on it while he removed his boots. His features were still concealed
from Martin by Mr. Seymour’s figure between him and the candle half-way
down the hall. He stood up.

“Heave ho,” he muttered.

And then Martin started, and instinctively shrank back a little. When he
looked out again the two men, carrying the box between them, were full
in the light of the guttering candle, and in the larger of them he
recognised the black-bearded stranger whom he had first seen at the
river stairs in the company of Mr. Slocum, and whom he had rowed down to
Deptford in Jack Boulter’s wherry.




                         CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH


                      BLACKBEARD VISITS THE BAKER

The astonishing discovery that Mr. Seymour and Blackbeard, as he called
the stranger to himself, had dealings in common kept Martin awake for a
good many hours.

He acknowledged that there was no reason why they should not have
business relations, but there seemed to be something underhand in these
stealthy visits by night.

When he got up in the morning he went straight into Dick Gollop’s room,
and roused him.

“What do you want?” asked the constable, sleepily. “It’s not my watch
yet.”

“Wake up and listen!” replied Martin.

“Been fighting again, eh?”

“No. Do wake up; it’s something you ought to know.”

“Well, spin your yarn, and don’t be long about it, or my eyes’ll shut,
and then my ears won’t be no manner of good.”

Martin wasted no words in recounting the story of Blackbeard’s two
midnight visits and the conveying up to Mr. Seymour’s room of the two
brass-bound boxes. Gollop began to snore in the middle of it, but was
roused again by a vigorous shake.

“And you spoil a man’s sleep for that!” the constable grumbled. “I
wouldn’t have thought it of you!”

“But surely——”

“Now, look here, my lad!” said Gollop, raising himself on one elbow,
“don’t you go for to teach me anything about the law.”

“I wasn’t going——”

“Stow your gab and hark to me! Ain’t I a constable, and therefore a man
of law? Well, then, I tell you there’s nothing in the law to prevent a
man, two men, forty men, bringing a box, two boxes, forty boxes, into a
house at any watch o’ the night, dog-watch included.”

“But——”

“Don’t interrupt. If so be I was to run athwart the course of a man
conveying a box in the middle watches it ’ud be my bounden duty to hail
him and ask where he was bound for—if ’twas in the street, mind you,
and I was on my rounds. But when a man has got across his own
threshold—set his foot on his own deck in a manner of speaking—then I
question him at my peril.”

“Couldn’t you search the house?”

“Not being an inward-bound ship, nor me a customs officer, I couldn’t,
not without a warrant.”

“Why not get a warrant?” asked Martin.

“Why not? Because there’s no reason to think there’s anything contraband
in them boxes; and, what’s more, because I’m dead sleepy. So just you
set a course for your baker’s shop, my lad; what you can’t help, make
the best of.”

Martin was by no means satisfied that the constable’s exposition of the
law was sound, but it was clearly impossible to do anything more with
him until he had finished his sleep.

That morning, Martin, in the course of his duty, boarded a vessel moored
near Wapping which he had already visited several times, and where he
had established friendly relations with the cook.

“Two quarterns to-day, and mind they’re not stale,” said the cook.

“We never have any stale; our bread sells like hot cakes,” said Martin.

“Well, there’s a new customer for you astern there.”

The cook pointed to a vessel at anchor a few cables’ lengths down the
river.

“Why, isn’t that the Portugal ship that was repairing at Deptford?”
Martin asked.

“Ay, that’s her. She came up out of the yard on the tide yesterday.”

“I saw her in the yard not long ago. She’s had her mainmast shot away by
the French, they said.”

“True, that was the yarn. She’s a queer sort of vessel, by all accounts.
The crew are all black-haired men, but that you’d expect, being
Portugals or Levantines, or summat outlandish. What’s queer is that
they’re never allowed leave on shore. Even in Deptford, when the ship
was being overhauled, they had to sling their hammocks in an old
warehouse on the riverside. They was marched about like a lot of
prisoners—conveyed there and back by the officers—and a dark-looking
lot they are too.

“The captain’s a white man—white, says I, meaning he’s not a nigger,
for his face is the colour of beer, and his hair as black as coal, and
his beard like a horse’s mane. And it’s well his crew are foreigners,
for true-born Englishmen wouldn’t stand that sort of treatment; there’d
be mutiny aboard, trust me. But there’s no proper spirit in those
Portugals; I don’t call ’em men.”

“They’re men enough to eat English bread, I expect,” said Martin.

“See that you get English money. I wouldn’t trust ’em far,” declared the
cook.

Martin laughed as he went down the side. He had already got one or two
new customers for his master, and he was so much interested in this
Portugal vessel that he felt rather excited at the prospect of boarding
her.

But as he rowed towards her he began to have qualms. It was members of
her crew that had chased him that night when he had rowed Boulter’s
wherry down to Deptford and picked up the fugitive boy. He remembered
their wild looks and savage cries; above all, he remembered the face of
the man who had urged them on—the man who had been his
passenger—Blackbeard himself. What if he were recognised when he ran
alongside the vessel?

This idea daunted him, and swinging the boat round, he headed up the
river. But before he was half-way back to London Bridge he wished he had
taken the risk. After all, what had he to fear? Blackbeard might not be
aboard the ship; the crew had seen him only indistinctly in the dusk,
and they had been more intent on the boy he had taken into the boat than
on himself.

Further, suppose Blackbeard did recognise him, what then? He would know
him only as the rower of the wherry, who had allowed a boy swimming in
the river to climb into his boat for safety. There was nothing in that;
anyone else might have done the same. Blackbeard could not know that he
lived in the same house as Mr. Seymour, and was aware of his mysterious
visits to that gentleman.

But though he repented his timidity, he felt that he had come too far to
return now. As it turned out, he was glad of his decision, for in the
evening, just before closing time at the shop, when he was sweeping up
the flour and breadcrumbs that littered the floor, and had his back to
the door, he was startled to hear behind him the husky voice of the man
he had been thinking about.

“Pardon, sir,” said the voice; and Martin noticed that it had a foreign
accent, not at all like that in which Blackbeard had spoken to Mr.
Seymour.

He glanced over his shoulder, thinking he might be mistaken; but no, he
could not mistake that swarthy face and strangely-trimmed beard.

“Pardon, sir, are you the baker as send bread to the ships on the
river?”

“I am, to be sure,” said Mr. Faryner.

“Then I beg you send three breads regular all the days to the _Santa
Maria_ what lie by Wapping.”

“Are you the captain?”

“I am so.”

“Very well, I will send the bread, and you will pay on the spot?”

“Without doubt, yes, I will pay. Good-night.”




                         CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH


                       ON BOARD THE _SANTA MARIA_

Before Martin started on his river journey next morning, Mr. Faryner
impressed upon him that he must not leave bread upon the _Santa Maria_
without payment.

“I’ve been done before now,” said the baker. “I’ve given credit to
foreign captains and they’ve sailed away without settling. Once bit,
twice shy.”

Martin visited his regular customers as usual, then rowed on to the
Portugal vessel, which lay some distance from the other ships, and was
the last for that morning’s delivery.

His fears of the previous evening had left him, but he was conscious of
a rather quickening pulse as he brought his boat under the side.
Dark-browed men, leaning on the bulwarks, peered curiously at him, and
he could not help wondering whether one or another of them might
recognise his features.

A rope ladder hung from the waist. Catching hold of this, he looked up
and called:

“Bread for the _Santa Maria_.”

To his surprise none of the men answered. They continued to stare at him
but did not change their positions. Even if they did not understand
English, he thought they might guess his errand from the sight of the
loaves in his basket.

“Bread,” he called again, “ordered by the captain.”

Then someone repeated the word _capitano_, and Martin inferred from the
way they talked among themselves that the captain was not on board.
Emboldened by this discovery, Martin pointed to the loaves, and made
signs that they were intended for the ship.

“Ha, Sebastian,” cried one of the men.

A few moments later a very fat man came from behind and pushed his way
through to the side. His swarthy cheeks hung like dewlaps over his thick
neck, his shirt was open, revealing a massive chest almost as dark as
his face.

“What want?” he said.

“The captain ordered these loaves from the King’s baker,” Martin
replied.

“Up, up,” said the man, whose English appeared to be limited to
monosyllables.

Martin began to do as he had been instructed: to place the loaves in a
small sack, sling this on his back, and swarm up the ladder. But when
Sebastian, whom he supposed to be the cook, saw his intention, he cried
“No, no,” waved him back, and let down a rope, indicating that Martin
was to tie the sack to that.

There seemed to be nothing else to be done, though Martin was
disappointed: he had hoped for an opportunity of seeing something of
this mysterious vessel. The sack was drawn up; the man took it in his
huge dirty hands, and was turning away when Martin detained him by
calling out the word “money,” at the same time jingling the bag that
contained his morning’s takings.

“No money; captain not here,” said the man. “Come again other time.”

“I can’t do that,” said Martin. “My master’s orders were not to go
without the money.”

“Basta!” exclaimed the cook; then he turned on his heel and disappeared.

Without an instant’s hesitation, Martin hitched his painter to the rope
ladder, and, swarming up, sprang on to the deck. The seamen made way for
him, and looked on impassively as he darted across the deck.

[Illustration]

The cook was on the point of entering the galley, carrying the sack
slung loosely across his shoulders. He turned as he heard quick
footsteps, but was too late to prevent Martin from snatching the sack
away.

The man snarled an ejaculation in his own tongue, and lurched heavily
forward with arms outstretched as if to recapture the sack. But Martin
skipped back, held the sack behind him, and said firmly:

“I must have two shillings, or I cannot leave the bread.”

Before the cook could reply, one of the crew made a remark which drew a
roar of laughter from his mates, and brought a fierce scowl upon
Sebastian’s face, and a torrent of angry words from his lips. Martin
noticed how his multiple chin shook as he denounced the men who were
chaffing him.

He came on, threateningly, and Martin edged back, intending to toss the
sack into the boat and at least save his bread. But at this moment there
appeared round the side of the galley a slight, thin, dusky-faced boy,
in whom Martin at once recognised the child he had vainly tried to save
from his pursuers a few nights before. The boy’s manner suggested that
curiosity had drawn him to see what was going on.

His appearance served to divert the cook’s wrath. Turning aside,
Sebastian dealt the boy a heavy blow that struck him sprawling upon the
deck, and lifted his foot to kick him as he lay. With a sudden spring
Martin thrust himself between the bully and his victim.

For a moment there was dead silence; then a jesting remark from the
seaman who had spoken before evoked loud guffaws from the rest of the
crew. Purple with rage, Sebastian aimed a kick at Martin, who evaded it
by a quick sidelong movement, at the same time swinging his sack and
banging the man on the side of the head.

The sudden blow upset his balance. He toppled sideways, and with a
resounding thump measured his huge bulk on the deck. The boy, meanwhile,
had picked himself up and darted into the galley.

At this moment a man, somewhat better dressed than the others, came up
through the open hatchway and uttered a few words in a commanding tone
of voice. Martin guessed that he was demanding the meaning of the
uproar. A babel of explanations broke from the crew. The newcomer
silenced them with a stern gesture, his uneasy manner suggesting he was
anxious to put a stop to the scene and avoid further trouble.

With a contemptuous look at Sebastian, who had now risen to his feet, he
ordered him away, and opening a wallet that was slung at his belt, made
signs that Martin was to take from it the money due to him. Martin
picked out two shillings, emptied the sack on the deck, then clambered
down the side into his boat and rowed away.

Remembering the vindictive scowl on the cook’s face as he slunk off, he
wondered whether his impetuous action might not have done the boy more
harm than good. He felt a great pity for the wretched-looking little
fellow, with his thin cheeks and wistful, melancholy eyes.

“I wasn’t much good to him before,” he thought, “and only got myself a
sore head. I suppose he is cook’s mate to that fat bully, and leads a
dog’s life on board this strange ship. No doubt they’ll tell Blackbeard
all about it when he comes on board, and I shouldn’t wonder if he
complains to Mr. Faryner, and I shall get into hot water again. Well, I
couldn’t do anything else, and as Dick Gollop says, what you can’t help,
make the best of.”




                         CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH


                             COFFEE FOR TWO

Martin debated with himself whether to tell Mr. Faryner what had
happened on board the _Santa Maria_.

“If I mention the squabble he may think I’m a quarrelsome fellow,” he
said to himself ruefully. “He’ll say I get into trouble everywhere, on
land and on water too, and tell me to go. And I did want to go aboard
again: there’s something queer about that ship, and I’d like to know
more about her.”

It happened when he got back to the shop that the baker was so much
concerned with another matter that he gave Martin no opportunity of
telling his story.

“I’ve got another job for you, my lad,” he said. “You know Mr. Pasqua’s
coffee-house in Newman’s Court?”

“No, sir; and I don’t know where Newman’s Court is,” Martin replied.

“It’s off Cornhill; you know that. Well, Mr. Pasqua came himself this
morning and ordered a quantity of rolls and cakes to be sent to his
coffee-house. It’s a feather in my cap, my lad. He used to deal with
Grimes of Gracious Street, but he’s dissatisfied. I never did think much
of Grimes. Mr. Pasqua will be a very good customer if I please him, and
I promised that the things should be sent by one o’clock, and you’re
back just in time.”

“Must I go before dinner, sir?” asked Martin, who had been out in the
heat since early morning.

“Before dinner? Of course you must. What does your dinner matter when
there’s a new customer to be served? The basket will be ready in five
minutes; you can have your dinner presently. And let me tell you, you
must be very polite to Mr. Pasqua if you see him. He has been a servant,
and there’s no one more likely to take offence at want of politeness in
a servant than a man who has been a servant himself. And he’s a
foreigner too.”

“A Frenchman, sir?”

“No, a Sicilian. I wonder you haven’t heard of him. He was the servant
of an English merchant who lived in the East, and came back with his
master a few years ago to make coffee for him in the Eastern way. Mr.
Edwards, the merchant, had learnt the use of coffee-beans, and he was so
plagued and pestered by his friends and visitors wanting to taste the
new drink that he set his servant up in a coffee-house, and the man is
now a good deal richer than I am. Here’s the last batch.”

A man came from the bakery bearing a tray laden with crisp brown rolls
and rice-cakes. These were placed in the basket and Martin set off.

Following the fashion set by Mr. Pasqua, others had opened coffee-houses
in different parts of the city; but they were frequented only by
merchants and gentlemen, and Martin had never been inside one. It was
therefore with considerable interest that he entered the coffee-house in
Newman’s Court.

It was a large square room with a counter at one end, on which stood
glistening urns, porcelain cups, and silver sugar-basins. Behind it was
a young woman with golden hair piled high upon her head. A kettle hung
from a hook over a wood-fire.

Here and there about the room were small tables surrounded by wooden
chairs. At one side the room was partitioned off into compartments, some
with doors, within which the merchants could sip their coffee and talk
over their business in privacy.

Two boys were serving customers at the tables, and a small, dark,
foreign-looking man was moving about, exchanging a word here and a word
there.

When Martin entered with his laden basket, the foreigner, Mr. Pasqua
himself, came up to him, and speaking in very good English, said:

“You are from Faryner’s, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are in very good time. It is not yet one o’clock, and I am pleased.
Grimes’s boy was late, over and over again, and I was in danger of
losing my customers, the gentlemen who honour me. Tell Mr. Faryner that
he has begun well. And now let me see what you have brought.”

He took a cake and a roll from the basket, and bit each of them in turn.

“Very good,” he said, as he munched, smacking his lips and blinking his
eyelids. Martin was amused at the little man’s serious air.

Calling one of his boys, he bade him take the basket to the signorina.
This was evidently the young woman behind the counter, but as she spoke
in a very decided London accent Martin felt sure she was not a foreigner
and wondered why she was so called. It was a harmless affectation of Mr.
Pasqua’s, like that which, in those days of Charles II, gave Italian
names to English musicians and mountebanks.

While the basket was being emptied, Mr. Pasqua said to Martin:

“You look tired, boy. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I have never tasted it, sir,” Martin answered.

“Then this shall be a great day in your life. A cup of coffee,
signorina.”

A small cup was brought to Martin. Sipping it, he made a wry face.

“Ah! You find it bitter,” said Mr. Pasqua. “But stir it with the spoon,
then taste again.”

At the bottom of the cup was thick brown sugar. Martin stirred and
tasted.

“That is good, eh?” said the man, smiling. “It will refresh you. And you
shall have another cup when you come the next time.”

At this moment a bell rang in one of the closed compartments. Mr. Pasqua
himself hurried to answer the summons. As the door opened, Martin was
startled, and hastily turned his head. Seated at the little table were
two men, Mr. Slocum and Mr. Seymour.

He was careful not to look towards them again, and was glad when the
empty basket was brought to him and he was able to get out into the
street.

His first feeling was relief that he had not been seen by Mr. Slocum. He
thoroughly distrusted his former employer, and was ready to believe that
he would not hesitate to make mischief with Mr. Pasqua.

“Why am I always coming across that man?” he thought.

Then as he walked back towards Pudding Lane, he grew uneasy and
suspicious. It was a shock to him that Mr. Slocum and Mr. Seymour were
acquainted. He had seen each of them at different times with Blackbeard,
and the fact that all three were acquainted brought a crowd of
recollections to his mind.

He remembered that he had seen Mr. Slocum carrying a brass-bound box
exactly like those which Blackbeard had brought to Mr. Seymour. He
recalled how angry Mr. Slocum had been on that occasion, without any
obvious reasonable cause.

Blackbeard’s visits to Mr. Seymour had been secret. Was Mr. Slocum’s
anger due to the fact that he also had something to conceal? What was
the connection between the three men? Had it anything to do with the
boxes? What did they contain? Were they part of the cargo of the _Santa
Maria_?—perhaps held smuggled goods?

Puzzling about these questions, Martin suddenly thought of another—one
that startled him. What was the nature of the business between Mr.
Slocum and the old Frenchman?

The question came as a surprise to Martin himself. At first he did not
understand what had given rise to it, but he found himself fitting
together incidents that had previously seemed unrelated, and the more he
thought of them the more disturbed he grew.

Hitherto no one had been able to account for the strange attacks on the
Frenchman’s room. But Martin now remembered that the face he had seen
one night at the window was the face of the man who had waylaid him
going an errand for Mr. Slocum. He remembered also Mounseer’s dislike of
Mr. Seymour—and Mr. Seymour knew Mr. Slocum. It was odd that, somehow
or other, Mr. Slocum came into everything.

What was the mystery behind it all? To all appearance the Frenchman
possessed nothing that was worth stealing; yet what other motive than
robbery could anyone have had for breaking into his room? Mounseer knew
Mr. Slocum. Mr. Slocum knew Mr. Seymour, and that gentleman, in spite of
his politeness and his neighbourly intentions, was evidently suspected
and detested by the Frenchman.

Martin began to feel very much worried, and had the extraordinary
conviction that the clue to the whole mystery lay with Mr. Slocum.

“I dare say it’s very silly,” he thought; “it’s simply because I dislike
the man. Yet I can’t help it. The question is, what is Mr. Slocum at?”

This question was dinning in Martin’s head as he walked back along the
street. So intent was he on his own thoughts that he stepped rather
heedlessly, and was brought up by the sudden collision with a man
proceeding in the opposite direction. The man let out a savage oath, and
Martin, uttering an apology, edged away, only then recognising that the
angry footfarer was Blackbeard.

Fortunately, he thought, he had not himself been recognised, and,
allowing a short interval to elapse, he had the curiosity to follow the
man. It was with no surprise that he saw him enter Mr. Pasqua’s
coffee-house. Beyond doubt he was going to meet the two men whom Martin
had already seen there.

More curious than ever, Martin wished that he could find some means of
discovering what the three conspirators, as he now considered them, were
about to discuss. He thought of going in and buying a cup of coffee on
the chance that he might learn something, but after a moment’s
reflection gave up the idea; there would be too much danger of his being
caught.




                         CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH


                           WHAT MARTIN FOUND

The tide was running strong up the river when Martin started on his
round next morning. There was promise that the day would be hotter than
ever, but the wind, blowing briskly from the east, tempered the heat,
though at the same time it rendered doubly hard the task of rowing the
heavy wherry.

Martin was just pulling away from a brig at which he had delivered some
loaves, when a boat, sculled by a single seaman, passed him in the
opposite direction. He recognised it at once as the boat belonging to
the _Santa Maria_, and the oarsman as the man who found it so difficult
to keep awake.

Previously he had seen him only in the evening, and he could not help
feeling curious as to what his errand was.

After visiting in turn the ships on his list, and scratching off the
name of one that had left her moorings, he came at length to the last,
the _Santa Maria_.

“She won’t be here long,” he thought, noticing that a lighter lay on
each side of her.

From the one on the starboard side cargo was being hoisted on board by
means of a clumsy kind of derrick. He made his boat fast to the other,
put the loaves into his sack, threw the empty basket into the stern,
and, with the sack slung over his shoulder, swarmed up by a rope that
hung from a second derrick, placed ready for use when the second lighter
should be discharged.

All hands were busy with the cargo. Some of the crew grinned when they
recognised him, and as he looked inquiringly round they pointed to the
cook’s galley. Wondering what his reception would be, he went on, and
found the fat man frying some fish on his brazier, the timid-looking boy
standing by with a flask of oil.

The cook glanced at Martin with a surly scowl, and paid him no further
attention until he had turned out the fried fish on to a plate standing
on a tray. Then he took one of the fresh, crisp rolls that Martin had
brought, set this also on the tray, and ordered the boy to carry
breakfast to the captain.

The boy had only just gone, and Sebastian was counting the contents of
Martin’s sack, when the captain, Blackbeard himself, came along, as if
attracted by the smell of the frizzling fish. Catching sight of Martin
he stopped, looked hard at him for a moment or two, then, in his husky
voice with its foreign intonation, asked:

“What you do here?”

“I have brought the bread from Mr. Faryner,” Martin replied.

“Ah!” There was a slight pause. “I see you before?” he said.

It was clear that he had not at once recognised Martin as the boy who in
the evening dusk had rowed him down the river. Anxious to avoid
identification, Martin answered:

“I was in Mr. Faryner’s shop when you came to give your order.”

“Ah! So! I see you there—yes—perhaps. I think so.”

But there was a puzzled look on his face as he followed the boy with the
tray, and Martin was on thorns lest clearer recollection should come to
him.

Having counted the loaves and rolls, the cook, who had not addressed a
word to Martin, went away to fetch the money for them. Martin would not
have been surprised if he had been summoned to the captain’s cabin; but
Sebastian on his return simply handed him the coins, and he was free to
go.

Without loss of time he swarmed down on to the lighter, threw his sack
upon the upturned basket in the stern of the boat rocking alongside,
hauled on the painter until the boat was near enough for him to step in,
then cast loose, drifting on the tide while he got out his oars. Then he
pulled the boat round, but rested on the oars as he looked back at the
_Santa Maria_.

“Perhaps I ought to have asked when she is sailing,” he thought. “But I
suppose Blackbeard will give notice. I wonder what her cargo is and
where she is bound for? Perhaps Mr. Seymour and Mr. Slocum are engaged
in some venture overseas, and there is nothing really to be suspicious
about.”

He was still in a sort of daydream, moving the oars only enough to keep
the boat’s head straight, when a shout ahead roused him. Glancing over
his shoulder, he saw a ferryboat crossing his bows. A collision seemed
inevitable, but he eased his left oar and put all his strength into his
right, and scraped by with an inch or two to spare, the ferryman pouring
out a torrent of abuse such as only the Thames waterman of those days
could command.

The boat rocked under the sudden change of course and the wash of the
ferryboat. Martin pulled her round again, and noticed that the basket
had shifted slightly. It was now partly resting on its side against the
stern thwart. And then he caught sight of something dark between the rim
of the basket and the floor of the boat—something that surprised him so
much that for a few moments he ceased rowing and could only stare.

It was a small dark-skinned foot, the toes and instep just protruding
from the basket.

“Who’s there?” he called.

The foot was suddenly withdrawn, the basket moved, settling down so as
to cover completely the person underneath.

“I’ve seen you; you’d better show yourself,” said Martin. An idea struck
him, and he added: “Just show your face.”

The basket moved again, and now Martin saw without surprise the dark,
pathetic face of the cook’s boy of the _Santa Maria_.

“Don’t come out. I’ll row on,” he said.

He looked back towards the _Santa Maria_, now some two hundred yards
astern. The crew were still hoisting and stowing the cargo; there was no
sign of excitement, nothing to show that the boy had been missed.

Martin rowed on in silence for a few minutes until the bend in the river
hid the vessel from sight. Then he said again:

“Don’t come out. Keep the basket over you. But tell me why you are on my
boat, and what it is that you want.”




                        CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH


                              STOP, THIEF!

It was a strange scene—had anyone witnessed it. But Martin was careful
to keep out of the course of passing wherries, and so far from the ships
at anchor that the bottom of his boat was not visible from their decks.
The rim of the basket rested on the boy’s neck, and his dusky face, with
its large pleading eyes upturned towards Martin, looked as though it
projected from the planking.

“Me run away,” said the boy in a strange, high-pitched sing-song. “No
takee me back. No let catchee me. I pray sahib very much.”

“Where do you come from?” said Martin. “What are you?”

“Me India boy, come long way over black water. They beat me. See!”

He moved the basket a little, disclosing his thin, bare arms and legs,
on which were old scars and the long livid weals of recent lashes.

“Cover yourself,” said Martin hastily. “Go on. Tell me more.”

The boy went on to relate, in his halting broken English, a story that
Martin heard with indignation and pity. His name was Gundra, and his
parents were servants of an English merchant at Surat. He had been
allowed to run in and out of the merchant’s godowns, and had thus picked
up the little English he knew.

One day, when he was straying some little distance from the factory, he
was kidnapped by two big men, who carried him aboard their ship. There
he had been kept as a slave, half-starved, and cruelly used. He had not
one real friend among the crew, though the captain now and then
interposed when the fat cook was thrashing him.

So wretched was his life that he had long wished he might die, and if he
were taken back to the ship he would throw himself overboard and let
himself drown, though he could swim, as the sahib had seen. More than
once he had been tempted to destroy himself, but had been restrained by
the hope that some day he might be rescued and restored to his home.

“Keep me to be your slave, sahib,” he pleaded. “Me do all you tell.”

The boy’s woebegone look, and the sight of the wounds on his limbs,
moved Martin so deeply that he had already determined to do what he
could to save him from his oppressors. But he foresaw great
difficulties. What could he do with the boy? There was no room in Dick
Gollop’s apartments; besides, he felt sure the constable, as a man of
law, would hold strong views about the offence of harbouring runaways.

Yet he could not land the boy and leave him to his own devices. He would
be taken up as a vagrant, and what would become of him then? His lot
could hardly be worse than it had been on board the _Santa Maria_; but
Martin felt that by giving the boy shelter he had shouldered a certain
responsibility, and that he must not throw the little fellow into the
uncertain hands of chance.

While he was thinking over the problem so suddenly thrust upon him, he
had been paddling gently, but the swift-flowing tide had already borne
the boat a good distance up the river. It was clear that he must come to
a decision within a few minutes.

He had no friends but the Gollops and some of the watermen, and he could
not place the boy with them until he had consulted them. The idea of
running up as far as Battersea or Chelsea, and leaving Gundra there
until later, occurred to him; but he was due to return to the shop, and
he shrank from incurring Mr. Faryner’s displeasure. If it had been
evening, as on the former occasion, he might have left the boy in the
boat until after dark, but there were still many hours of daylight to
run, and the boat would be a very insecure shelter, even if the boy were
hidden under sacking.

After much thought he decided that the simplest course was the best. He
would land at the stairs nearest his home, take the boy there as quickly
as possible, hand him over to good-hearted Susan Gollop, and go back to
his work. What was ultimately to be done with Gundra must be left for
discussion with the constable and his wife after the day’s work was
done.

There were two or three boats at the foot of the stairs as Martin
approached, intending to land on the up-river side. But as he pulled in
towards them he suddenly noticed that one of the boats on that side was
the ship’s boat of the _Santa Maria_, which he had passed when rowing
down. The foreign seaman was in his usual attitude when waiting, half
doubled up in the stern, and apparently asleep.

Martin at once altered his course, bearing hard on his right oar so as
to bring the boat to the nearer side of the stairs. At the same time he
gave Gundra an urgent warning to keep himself well covered by the
basket.

He pulled easily in to the landing-place. The other boats were
unoccupied, the watermen, their owners, being out of sight, though no
doubt within hail.

Martin was beginning to tie his boat to the post when footsteps on the
stairs above caused him to look up. It was with a feeling almost of
dismay that he saw Mr. Seymour coming down, carrying a large square
object wrapped in sacking—no doubt a box, perhaps one of the
brass-bound boxes that Blackboard had brought to the house. Behind him
came a man laden with a similar burden.

“Next oars, sir?” called a hoarse, loud voice, and a waterman appeared
at the head of the steps. “Next oars” was the phrase commonly used by
watermen plying for hire.

“Not to-day,” replied Mr. Seymour over his shoulder. “I have my own
boat.”

The waterman growled about people who did honest men out of a living,
and walked away.

Martin was desperately anxious that Mr. Seymour should not observe him.
He dared not go up the stairs and meet him face to face; not that he had
any dread of a meeting for himself, but because of his knowledge of the
runaway boy and his new-born suspicions of Mr. Seymour’s relations with
Blackbeard and Mr. Slocum.

Turning his back to the stairs, he fumbled with his painter, as if he
found a difficulty in tying up the boat. He had, in fact, tied, untied,
and tied again before Mr. Seymour and his companion had stowed their
burdens on board, and his back was still towards them when he knew by
the thudding of the oars in the rowlocks that their boat had put off.

It was some little time before he allowed himself to face about, hoping
that the danger of recognition was past. But he had not reckoned with
the strength of the current. The seaman, pulling the heavily-weighted
boat against the stream, had made only a few yards. Mr. Seymour’s face
was turned towards the shore. He caught sight of Martin, waved his hand
in recognition, and smiled in his usual pleasant way.

“He doesn’t guess what I’ve got under my basket,” Martin thought, at the
same time feeling unreasonably annoyed at having been recognised at all.

Now that the coast was clear he paddled round to the side of the stairs,
and tied up his wherry at the place vacated by the ship’s boat, wasting
time until that craft was well out of sight. Then, after a look all
round, he lifted the basket.

“Come with me,” he said to the Indian boy, taking him by the hand, and
slinging the basket over his other arm.

Hand in hand they ascended the stairs. Lolling against a rail was the
waterman who had offered his wherry to Mr. Seymour—a man whom he knew.

“Ahoy, young master! What have you got there?” said the man, looking
quizzingly at the dark-faced boy, who, at the sound of his rough voice,
shrank timidly to Martin’s side and clasped his hand more tightly.

“An Indian boy come ashore to see London,” Martin replied. “There’s no
need to mention it if questions are asked.”

“Mum’s the word, eh? Ay, ay, I’ll keep my tongue under hatches, never
fear.”

The two boys had walked only a few yards when they came upon the man who
had accompanied Mr. Seymour. He was seated on a tree-stump, smoking,
idly watching the river. As the boys passed him he turned and looked at
them, but Martin could not gather from his expression whether he had
paid them any special attention or not. A few minutes afterwards,
however, when they were going up the gentle hill that would presently
bring them to Bishopsgate, Martin chanced to turn his head, and saw,
with a feeling of alarm, that the man was following.

In a flash he realised that while he had been watching Mr. Seymour the
other man must have been watching him. No doubt he had noticed how he
was acting for the purpose of consuming time. Martin had never seen the
man before, and felt sure that he knew nothing about him, but had
guessed that he had something to conceal from Mr. Seymour. What could be
done to shake him off?

Martin knew every inch of this part of London, lying between the river
and his home. A minute or two after he had assured himself that the man
was indeed dogging him, he turned suddenly into a narrow court, dropped
Gundra’s hand, and telling the boy to keep pace with him, started to
run.

But he was hindered by his basket. The man must have started to run
also, for before the boys had gained the end of the court the pursuer
was hard on their heels. To make matters worse, he shouted. “’Ware!
’ware! Stop, thief!”

No one was at the moment passing in the court, but windows flew open,
heads looked out, and Martin knew that it was only a matter of minutes
before the chase would be in full cry.

Dashing out of the court with the Indian, he ran a few yards along the
street, then darted into a narrow alley on the other side. In a moment
he realised the mistake into which his haste had led him. The place was
a cul-de-sac; there was no opening at the farther end. He was trapped.




                         CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH


                           SALLY TAKES A HAND

For a moment or two Martin felt as a hunted fox might feel when the
chase had driven it into an enclosure from which there was no escape.

The narrow alley, a sort of tunnel under the houses, opened into a
broader yard, bounded on the one side by a high blank wall, on the other
by the palings of square grass plots in front of a row of small houses.
At the farther end another wall presented an obstacle which only a cat
could have climbed.

But just as Martin was on the verge of despair he caught sight of a
familiar figure, and in a flash he saw a possible chance of safety.

On one of the grass plots a buxom woman was bending over a large washtub
that stood on a three-legged stool. A clothes-line, propped on poles,
was extended from a nail in the house-wall to one of the palings, and
from it hung a blue shirt, a pair of stockings, a spotted neck-cloth,
and other articles, pegged up to dry in the sun.

“Sally Boulter!” Martin exclaimed, rushing through the little gate.

He had recognised her as the wife of his friend Boulter the waterman, to
whom she sometimes brought his dinner to the stairs.

“Please let us come into your house,” he went on breathlessly. “There’s
a man after us.”

“Well, to be sure!” she cried, keeping her hands in the tub. “In with
you, young master.”

The boys ran past her into the open doorway of the little house. At the
same moment the pursuer, red-faced with running, came out of the alley
into the yard. Apparently he had seen the boys before they disappeared,
for he pounded along straight to Mrs. Boulter’s gate.

When he reached it he found it closed, and on the other side of it a
strapping young woman, her stout, muscular arms bared to the shoulder,
and in her hands a blanket which she had just wrung dry. Her lips were
pressed close together, and her friends would have said that she was in
a difficult mood.

Brought up by the gate, the man asked, rather gaspingly:

“Have you seen a baker’s boy and a blackamoor?”

“Have I seen—what did you say?” replied Sally.

“A baker’s boy.”

“Many a one; baker’s boys aren’t that uncommon.”

“Just now, I mean.”

Sally looked up and down the yard.

“No, I can’t see a baker’s boy just now,” she said. “But if you want a
baker’s boy, there’s a baker just round the corner, and another two
streets away. I’m busy with my man’s washing, so don’t bother me no
more.”

“Don’t you talk of bothers, mistress,” said the man, tartly. “You’ll be
more bothered yet if you’re not careful. Didn’t I see the tail-end of
the basket going into your door? The baker’s boy is inside, and the
blackamoor too, and I’ve something to say to them, so——”

He suddenly pushed open the gate, forcing the woman back a pace, and was
starting to run across the grass towards the house. But Sally was a
woman of spirit. Whirling the roll of blanket round her head she brought
it with a swish across the man’s neck, hurling him against the washtub.
He caught at the rim to steady himself, disturbing the balance of the
tub upon its stool. It toppled over with a crash, and the man lay
between the stool and the tub in a pool of soapy water.

“What’s all this, missus?” cried a bluff voice.

In the doorway stood the burly waterman, Boulter himself, surveying the
scene. Above his breeches he wore nothing but his shirt.

“Wants bakers’ boys and blackamoors, he does,” answered his wife,
jerking her elbow towards the fallen man. “Pushes in, he does, and
upsets my washtub; clumsy, I call it.”

“He does, does he!” said the waterman, licking his hands as he stepped
out on to the grass. “Bakers’ boys, and blackamoors, _and_ washtubs,
does he? Pushes in, does he? I’m thinking it’s black eyes what he really
wants.”

With every sentence he had drawn a step nearer to the discomfited
intruder, who, spluttering with soapsuds, was still recumbent in the
swamp, half-hidden by the tub.

“Get up!” cried Boulter.

The man pushed the tub off, and rose slowly to his feet.

“Out you go, after that,” the waterman continued, kicking the man’s hat
over the fence into the yard.

The man slunk through the gateway, leaving a trail of soapsuds.

“Messing up my garden!” growled Boulter, close on his heels. “Pick up
your hat.”

As soon as the man had recovered his dripping hat he set off to run to
the alley-way. But Boulter took a stride forward, seized him by the
collar, and marched him down the yard, prodding him on with regular
applications of a bony knee.

“I’ll learn you to come pushing into decent folk’s gardens!” said the
waterman. “On a Saturday too! After bakers’ boys and blackamoors! And
washtubs! Spilling the water! You get out!”

He had come to the entrance of the alley, and with a parting kick sent
the man headlong towards the street.

“Now don’t you tell me nothing,” he said to Martin when he returned to
the house. “I’m much mistook if I didn’t see this blackamoor aboard that
there Portugal ship, and if I don’t hear no stories I won’t tell no
lies, for there may be questions asked.”

“Very well, Boulter,” said Martin. “Thank you very much for your help.
Will it be safe for us to go home now?”

“I’ll see to that,” said the waterman.

He accompanied the boys to the street. Lurking at the corner stood the
pursuer. On seeing Boulter he shambled away in the direction of the
river.

“Drawed out of action,” said Boulter with a chuckle. “You’ve a clear
course on t’other tack, and I reckon you’ll come safe to port.”




                         CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH


                           GUNDRA DISAPPEARS

Gundra, the Indian boy, had been a silent, nervous spectator of these
scenes. His lean body seemed to be quivering from top to toe when Martin
once more struck away for home, and the curious glances of the persons
they met brought a scared look into his eyes.

“Cheer up!” said Martin, noticing his timorousness. “We’ll soon be home,
and I’m sure Susan Gollop will be kind to you.”

But the first aspect of Susan Gollop made Gundra shrink back and clutch
Martin by the sleeve. The good woman was beating a mat on the waste
ground at the rear of the house, and the vigour of her strokes with the
cane, and the fierce set of her mouth, seemed to promise little
kindness.

“Here’s a poor little Indian boy, Susan,” Martin began.

“Don’t worry me!” Susan interrupted. “I’m late as it is; Gollop will be
roaring for his breakfast in a minute. And why aren’t you at your work,
I’d like to know?”

All the same, she looked inquisitively at the shrinking child. Martin,
knowing her morning temper of old, discreetly said nothing, but took
Gundra back into the house, and set him on a stool with a wedge of
treacle-cake from the table.

Presently Susan came in, flung the mat upon the floor; then, placing her
hands on her hips, stood over the boys and demanded:

“Now what’s all this about? Who’s this black boy?”

“He’s an Indian, and has run away from a ship where they were ill-using
him,” Martin replied.

“Sakes alive! And what’s that to do with you, Martin Leake?”

“I want to help him. I want you to keep him here for a day or two, until
we can decide what to do with him.”

“Do with him? Take him back, to be sure. There’s no room for a runaway
here; you’ll get us all into trouble; and I can’t afford another mouth
to feed. I’m surprised at you. And you’ll be out of a job again. What
will Mr. Faryner say, neglecting your work like this?”

“We can’t send him back, Susan, to be thrashed and half-starved,” Martin
began.

He said no more, for Gundra slipped from the stool, fell upon his knees,
and holding up his bare arms, pleaded his own cause.

“Not go back; not go back!” he cried piteously. “Me not eat much; me
work very, very hard!”

“What’s them marks on his arms?” said Susan, suddenly.

“Where’s he’s been lashed!” said Martin.

“Wicked; downright wicked!” Susan exclaimed. “Poor lamb! What if he is
black? But I don’t know what Gollop will say.”

At this moment the constable entered the room, his cheeks well lathered,
and shaving-brush in hand.

“What’s that squeaky voice I hear?” he said. “Bless my eyes, who’s this
I see?”

“You may well ask,” said Susan. “It’s a poor little creature of a slave
boy what’s run away.”

“From that Portugal ship I’ve told you about,” Martin added.

“Run away, has he?” said Gollop. “Then you’ll convoy him back as quick
as quick. Harbouring runaways is an offence in law, and as a man of law
’tis my bounden duty to give him up.”

“For shame, Gollop!” said his wife, now completely won over. “You and
your law! What’s law, I’d like to know?”

“Law’s your master and my living, woman,” said Gollop. “Don’t you make
any mistake about that. The boy’s a runaway, and back he goes.”

“You’re a hard-hearted monster,” said Susan. “Look at this!” She seized
Gundra by the arm and drew him towards her husband. “Scars! Look at
’em!”

“Show your back, Gundra,” said Martin.

Susan herself pulled up the boy’s shirt and revealed livid streaks upon
his flesh.

“Is there no law about that?” she demanded indignantly.

The constable stood with his brush poised in his hand.

“Them Portugals did that!” he cried. “Flog a poor little shrimp, eh?
Sink me if I give ’em another chance. I’m a freeborn Englishman, I am,
and law or no law, I’ll not give up any mortal soul, black or white, to
be treated that cruel. Cover him up, Sue. Split my timbers! I’ve never
seen anything like it.” He began to stamp up and down the room, kicking
over a stool, flourishing his soapy brush. “Brutes, that’s what they
are. How dare they run into an English port! Constable as I am, English
seaman I was, and sooner than send the poor little wretch back into a
ship where they treat them so savage, I’d—I’d——”

He knocked over a chair.

“I understand your feelings, Gollop,” said Susan mildly, “but you
needn’t smash the furniture. And you’ll want a steady hand for your
shaving, my man. Just go and make yourself tidy while I get your
breakfast.”

“I will. Mind you, Sue, that boy stays here till the ship sails. Don’t
you give him up to no one whatsoever. And keep a still tongue. Don’t go
a-babbling.”

“And keep him out of Mr. Seymour’s sight,” said Martin.

“Why?” asked Susan in surprise.

“Because—I’ll tell you later on. It’s a long story, and Mr. Faryner
will be in a rage with me if I don’t hurry back. I’m very late.”

“What you can’t help, make the best of,” said Gollop, as he went back
into his bedroom to finish his interrupted toilet.

The baker was in an irritable mood when Martin reached the shop. He had
had to find another messenger to carry the morning’s delivery of bread
and pastries to Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house. His annoyance was increased
when Martin told him that the _Santa Maria_ was taking in cargo in
preparation for sailing.

“They’ve given me no notice,” he said. “But I’ve given no credit, that’s
a blessing. What have you been doing all this time? Gaping at the
sailors, I suppose. I know you boys—eyes for anything but your proper
work. Get away into the back shop and scrub the floor.”

Martin was thankful not to be questioned further. He had half expected
that by this time Mr. Faryner had been informed of his having brought an
Indian boy away from the ship, and he was on thorns for the rest of the
day. But nothing was said about it, and he left the shop at the usual
hour.

When he got home, he found that Gundra was the centre of interest.
Seated on a settle beside Lucy, he was chatting cheerfully to the little
girl, answering her innumerable questions in his queer, broken English.

“He is such a nice little boy,” she whispered to Martin. “I am so glad
you brought him.”

Mrs. Gollop, in high good humour, was full of his praises. She related
how eagerly he had made himself useful, scouring her pots and pans,
peeling potatoes, and even showing her how to cook rice in the Indian
way.

She had made him a shakedown in a cupboard under the stairs.

“It’s a dark place,” she said, “and I won’t say but he’ll have mice for
company, but it was the only place I could think of, and when I’d swept
it out he was quite pleased with it. It’s very stuffy this hot weather,
but I told him to leave the door open when he goes to bed, or he’ll be
stifled. He’s a willing little fellow, that I will say.”

The next day was Sunday, but Martin rose at his usual hour, because he
had to make a round with fresh hot rolls before the day was his own. He
noticed as he passed the cupboard under the stairs that the door, which
had been open when he said good-night to the boy, was now nearly closed.

“Well, let it be,” said Susan, upon his telling her. “Them Indians live
in a hot country, by all that’s said, and he won’t mind the stuffiness.
And we won’t wake him; a long sleep will do him good, poor lamb.”

Martin cleaned his boots and ate his breakfast; then, as he was about to
start for the shop, he thought he would peep into the cupboard and see
if the boy was awake.

He listened at the door. There was no sound from within. Then very
cautiously he pulled the door towards him and looked in. The narrow
cupboard with its sloping roof was in black darkness, and for a few
moments his eyes could not distinguish even the shakedown on the floor.
But presently he was able to discern its dim outlines, and then he
started and hurriedly entered.

Half a minute later he rushed back into the living-room, where Mrs.
Gollop was cleaning the hearth.

“Susan,” he cried, “the cupboard is empty. Gundra has gone!”

Mrs. Gollop was considerably upset.

“Well, of all the ungrateful little wretches!” she exclaimed. “Coming
here whining and dropping on his knees, and me making up a bed for him
and all—and then to slink out without a word! I’ll never do anything
for a foreigner again.”

“But we don’t know that he slunk out, Susan,” Martin protested.

“We don’t _know_!” she retorted sarcastically. “Did he say good-bye to
_you_, then? Did you hear him go? And I warrant he didn’t go
empty-handed, either. Wait till I count my spoons!”

“I don’t believe he’s a thief!” said Martin. “I don’t believe he ran
away. I believe someone got into the house and took him!”

“Well, them that took him had a right to him, didn’t they? A good
riddance to bad rubbish! Now eat your fill, and be off; ’tis your first
Sunday with Mr. Faryner, and he won’t thank you if you’re late.”

It was only six o’clock. Gollop had not returned from his nightly duty,
and Lucy was still asleep. Martin hurriedly swallowed a thick slice of
bread-and-dripping, thinking hard all the time, while Susan inspected
her drawers and cupboards to find evidence of the Indian boy’s knavery.

“I’m sure he did not go willingly,” thought Martin. “Mr. Seymour’s man
saw him with me, and no doubt told Mr. Seymour, and he knows Blackbeard,
and—oh, what a puzzle everything is!”

His mind was full of the matter as he started for the shop. He wondered
whether Mr. Seymour had let Blackbeard into the house during the
night—whether the boy was now back on board the _Santa Maria_, perhaps
at that very moment being thrashed by that fat bully the cook. And he
foresaw a very unpleasant time for himself when he took his bread to the
ship on Monday morning.




                         CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH


                              FIRE! FIRE!

Within a minute or two Martin’s mind was taken off the fate of the
Indian boy by something much more actual and immediate. On turning the
corner he was aware that there were many more people in the streets than
was usual at that hour on Sunday morning. They were all hurrying in one
direction—the same direction as himself. There was excitement in their
looks and in the way they spoke to one another; some appeared to be
asking eager questions which those they addressed were in too great
haste to answer.

He caught the word Fire!

“Is there a fire? Where is it?” he asked a lad in a ’prentice’s cap who
was trotting over the cobblestones.

“London Bridge,” panted the lad, and ran on.

Martin began to run too. The crowd grew thicker; from every street and
lane poured men and boys, and a few women, some only half dressed, all
excited, all eager. From mouth to mouth ran the terrible word Fire! and
as the throng swelled their pace quickened, and their cries, mingling
with the clatter of their shoes, raised a din that strangely disturbed
the Sabbath quiet of the bright morning.

“It must be a big fire,” thought Martin, and he remembered hearing
Gollop speak of a fire on London Bridge when he was a boy, which had
burned all night and destroyed more than forty houses.

“Where is it? Where is it?”

The question was repeated again and again as newcomers joined the crowd.
No one seemed to know with certainty. Some said London Bridge, others
Cannon Street. Nothing could be seen of it. The streets were narrow, the
houses high and overlapping in their upper storeys; between their tops
the sky was cloudless blue.

The clamour grew louder; every now and then there were strange popping
noises which for a moment startled the crowd to silence. They ran faster
and faster, jostling one another, pushing aside the less active. Swept
along in the pouring tide, Martin found himself in Little Eastcheap, and
then, far ahead in that broader thoroughfare, he saw over the roofs a
brownish tinge in the sky.

On and on he ran, his excitement growing with every step he took. At the
corner of Gracechurch Street the meeting streams of people made so dense
a block that for a while his progress was checked; he was hemmed in amid
a press of stout citizens, unable to see anything but their backs.

His ears were deafened by their shouts, which rose above the distant
roar and crackle. Presently, when he again began to move onward, he
heard a man near him say, in a loud voice:

“’Tis Pudding Lane, I tell you.”

The words were taken up around him. Pudding Lane! The cry flew from lip
to lip, and stirred the crowd into a vast surging movement southward.

“Pudding Lane! What house, I wonder?” thought Martin. “The Three Tuns,
perhaps; they’ve a lot of straw in their yard. Or perhaps it’s at
Noakes’s, the oil-man’s. His shop would blaze.”

More and more eager to reach the scene of the fire, he began to push and
wriggle and worm his way through the mob, getting his toes trodden on,
and indignant thrusts and cuffings from those he incommoded. As he drew
nearer to his goal the roar swelled; at moments, when he was able to
look ahead, he saw dense clouds of smoke, brown and black, sweeping
across the housetops westward, carried swiftly along by the north-east
wind.

After what seemed to be hours of struggling he arrived at the corner of
Fish Street Hill. The air was full of smoke and floating blacks and the
suffocating smell of burning. The crowd here was denser than ever; the
din louder and more terrible. Martin, already half-choked with the
smoke, felt that his breath would be squeezed out of him by the pressure
around. But he pushed and prodded, taking advantage of the least gap
that opened as the throng swayed, and by and by he managed to force his
way to a point where he should be able to see the houses on Fish Street
Hill and in Pudding Lane opposite.

But where were the houses? He rubbed his smarting eyes, and looked and
looked again. There were no houses any more. Where the great Star Inn
had stood, with its galleries and yards and outbuildings, there was now
nothing but a black smouldering heap. All down the Hill, all down the
Lane, it was the same black waste and desolation: not a house remained
standing. And as he looked he saw flames burst from the belfry of St.
Magnus Church beyond, and a huge column of smoke shoot up around its
lofty tower.

“The church is ablaze!” roared the crowd.

“The parsonage too! Save us all!”

Here and there among the throng were persons wringing their hands and
lamenting the loss of all their possessions. Martin forced his way to
one of them, and asked eagerly:

“Have you seen Mr. Faryner?”

“My house is gone—my house is gone!” was all the reply he received.

He went from one to another, repeating his question; no one knew the
whereabouts of the baker. Martin felt anxious; the house and shop were
utterly destroyed, their site was occupied only by heaps of charred and
smouldering debris. Had Mr. Faryner and his family and journeyman
escaped? It was clear that the fire must have broken out in the middle
of the night. Had they been taken by surprise and perished in the
flames?

Martin was at a loss what to do. His occupation was gone; there was no
bread for him to carry; he could learn nothing of his employer, and he
debated with himself whether to stay and watch the progress of the fire
or to run home and tell the Gollops what he had seen. Deciding for the
second course, he turned his back and tried to fight his way to
Gracechurch Street. But the crowd had enormously increased. There were
no policemen in those days to clear the streets, no firemen to dash up
with their engines and pour water on the flames. In the churches were
kept a few leather buckets and metal squirts, but they were useless in
so great a conflagration.

An eddy in the stream of people carried Martin into Cannon Street, and
he suddenly found himself pressed against Mr. Faryner’s man. He was
swept past him, but managed to dodge back, and seized his arm firmly.

“Where is Mr. Faryner?” he cried.

“Safe and sound, thank God, with his friend the mercer in Cheapside,”
the man answered. “But he’s in a terrible state of mind, and no wonder,
seeing as the fire broke out in his shop.”

“In our shop?” asked Martin, in amazement.

“Ay, about two o’clock this morning. I woke out of my sleep feeling I
was choking, and the place was full of smoke. I roused the master. We
couldn’t get downstairs, so we had to climb through the garret window
and along a gutter-pipe to the roof next door. How we did it, Heaven
alone knows, and I wouldn’t venture it again for a thousand pounds.”

“What caused the fire?”

“Who knows? ’Tis my belief——”

But at this moment there was a cry of “Make way for the Lord Mayor!”
People pushed this way and that, and in the commotion Martin was torn
from the man’s side and swept along the street. It was hopeless to
attempt to reach him again, or to take a direct course for home, and
Martin allowed himself to drift on the tide.




                        CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST


                            WHAT SUSAN FOUND

The circular movement of the crowd brought Martin in time to a point
where he was able to see how swiftly the fire was spreading. The houses
at the end of London Bridge were ablaze. Between the bridge and
Fishmongers’ Hall was a warren of dilapidated timber houses intersected
by narrow alleys. Into those passages the strong wind bore sparks and
blazing fragments; the dry wood easily caught fire, and it was evident
that the whole district would soon be a furnace.

And now the inhabitants, at first careless spectators, were seized with
panic fear, and in desperate haste began to move their goods and
furniture from the doomed houses. From every door they sallied forth,
laden with every article they could carry. There was a fierce demand for
trucks and carts; some people hastened downhill to the riverside, and
besought the aid of the watermen in conveying their goods out of harm’s
way.

This suggested an idea to Martin. Mr. Faryner’s boat lay at the stairs
some distance below the bridge. Why should he not use it to help the
frantic people? He ought to ask Mr. Faryner’s leave, but it would take
him hours to get through the crowd to the mercer’s house in Cheapside;
indeed, it would be difficult enough, even by a roundabout route, to
reach the stairs.

The arrival of the Lord Mayor on horseback, attended by his javelin men,
had fortunately thinned the crowd at the corner of Eastcheap, and
Martin, by dodging and winding, succeeded in making his way into one of
the lanes running down to the river.

He would hardly have been surprised to find that the boat had already
been taken away; but it was in its usual place, padlocked to the post.
Springing in, he rowed out upon the river, which was already crowded
with craft of all kinds: the wherries of the watermen, who would reap a
rich harvest to-day: the barges of fine gentlemen come to view the
spectacle.

Martin pulled over to the Surrey side, to avoid the sparks and burning
masses that were falling from the houses at the northern end of the
bridge, shot through one of the arches, and rowed across to the other
shore. The fire was speeding westward like a devouring monster. He
observed the flames leaping from house to house; the smoke, driven
before the wind, already reaching past Blackfriars; the blazing
particles that were whirled up and round, and fell hissing into the
river.

The waterside was thronged with people clamouring for watermen, even
throwing their goods into the water. When Martin pulled in to the
nearest stairs he had to keep an oar’s length distant to prevent his
boat from being overcrowded and swamped, and it was only after some
argument and even altercation that he was able to take on board an old
man and woman with all their little wealth tied up in huge bundles.

Having rowed them to Westminster, where they had a married daughter, and
refused pay, he returned, and again selected the older people from those
who besought his services. Time after time he went up and down the
river, finding it more and more difficult to steer a course among the
hundreds of craft, large and small, that almost blocked the waterway.
And on shore the roar and crackle of the flames mingled with the cries
and lamentations of homeless people.

At last, tired and hot and hungry, Martin pulled his empty boat down
stream, fastened it to its post at the stairs which, being behind the
fire, were deserted, and dragged himself wearily homeward. It was long
past his dinner-time, but Susan Gollop had kept food waiting for him and
for her husband, who had not yet returned.

“What’s come of the man?” she said, when Martin entered the room.
“Stopping to see the fire they’re talking about, I suppose. And you’re
as black as a sweep. What have you been doing?”

“Helping to save people’s goods,” Martin replied. “It’s a frightful
fire, Susan; hundreds of houses burnt already, and there’s no stopping
it while the wind’s so strong. Mr. Faryner’s house is burnt down.”

“Gracious me! What’ll you do for your living now? Where did this dratted
fire start?”

“At our shop.”

“Well, to be sure! Some careless wretch didn’t rake out the embers, I
warrant.”

“Shall we be burnt, Martin?” asked Lucy, timorously.

“Of course not, child,” Susan interposed. “It’s far enough off, and the
wind blows it away from us, thank goodness. I don’t know what the
world’s coming to, what with fires, and men who won’t come in to their
vittles, and dark doings under the stairs.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asked.

“Why, look at this: what do you make of that?”

She held up a large brass button, to which were attached a few threads.

“Well?” said Martin, wondering.

“It’s not well: it’s a mystery. That’s a button from a man’s coat, and I
found it in the cupboard under the stairs. I went in with a candle to
take down the bed that Indian boy slept in, and tidy up, and there was
the button a-shining on the floor.”

“What of that?”

“Why, that boy had no buttons: his clothes was all rags and strings.”

“It may have been there before.”

“That I’m sure it wasn’t, for I swept out the place myself for the boy.
I ask you, how did that button come in my cupboard?”

“I can’t tell, and it doesn’t matter much. By the look of it it’s been
torn off. I’ll just eat my dinner and then go off and see if I can find
Gollop.”

But Martin did not find Gollop, nor indeed did he look very earnestly
for him, so much interested was he in watching the fire. Soldiers, horse
and foot, had been sent from Westminster to keep order in the streets.
At the King’s command houses were being pulled down to stay the course
of the flames. The streets were clogged with carts and barrows laden
with the goods of fugitives. And the crowds were now declaring that the
fire was the work of foreigners, and clamouring for vengeance.

It was late in the evening when Martin, tired out, once more reached
home. Meeting the old Frenchman on the doorstep, he mentioned the
excitement about foreigners, and suggested that his friend should avoid
the crowds. Mounseer smiled and thanked him, but showed no signs of
concern.

They stood on the doorstep watching the glow in the sky. It was a dark
night, but every now and then a burst of flame in the distance lit up
the street. Presently Mr. Seymour came along from the direction of the
river. As he reached the foot of the steps a sudden brief illumination
fell upon him. And in that moment Martin noticed that the top button of
Mr. Seymour’s coat was missing.

Mr. Seymour halted, and, dangling his tasselled cane, said with a
pleasant smile: “A magnificent spectacle, is it not? And we need not pay
for seats.”

“As you say, sir,” replied the Frenchman coldly, turning to enter the
house.

Martin was trying to see clearly the kind of buttons on Mr. Seymour’s
coat, but that gentleman had faced about, so that his back was towards
the fire, and the glow in the sky had dulled a little. In order to
detain him, Martin asked:

“Are we quite safe here, sir?”

The Frenchman heard the question, and turned at the door, as if waiting
with some anxiety for the answer.

“There’s not a doubt of it,” said Mr. Seymour. “We are a good distance
behind the fire, and the east wind is driving it from us along the
waterside.”

Martin had paid little attention to Mr. Seymour’s answer, so eager was
he to satisfy himself as to the nature of the buttons. Mounseer,
apparently reassured, had disappeared. Wheeling round to follow him into
the house, Mr. Seymour came for a moment within the illumination from
the red sky, and Martin almost jumped as he noticed that the buttons
appeared to be made of the same metal as the one that Susan Gollop had
found. They seemed also to be the same size, but of that he was not
quite so sure.

He went into the house behind Mr. Seymour, watched him ascend to the
upper floor, then ran down the basement stairs. Mrs. Gollop had prepared
supper, and there was a look of disappointment on her face when she saw
Martin enter alone.

“Have you seen Gollop?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t,” Martin replied.

“What has become of the man? I’m beginning to worrit. He’s such a
regular man for his meals. He’s never missed his Sunday dinner since he
came home from sea.”

“Isn’t that his step?” said Martin, running to the door.

Heavy, dragging footsteps were heard on the stairs. Lucy jumped up and
joined her brother: Mrs. Gollop stood in her place, and with a quick
lift of her apron wiped the corners of her eyes.




                       CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND


                             THE EMPTY ROOM

The constable tumbled rather than walked into the room. His hands and
clothes were begrimed and black; his hat was crushed and shapeless; his
fat, rosy cheeks were streaked with irregular patterns where his fingers
had rubbed.

Susan Gollop stood with arms akimbo, grimly eyeing the returned
wanderer.

“Well, if you’re not a pretty object!” she said severely; but her lips
were trembling a little. “There! Fetch a basin of water, Lucy, and the
pummy stone, and there’s a dirty towel on the rack.”

Dick Gollop plumped heavily into a chair.

“I’m dead beat, missus,” he murmured. “Give us a drink.”

Martin handed him a mug, and he took a deep draught.

“What a Sunday!” he exclaimed. “Fire and brimstone! The everlasting
fire! And the Lord Mayor’s just as silly as any common man. My throat’s
as dry as a bone. Another drink, lad.”

“Don’t you talk lightly of the Lord Mayor, my man,” said his wife
reproachfully.

“Pish! He’s scared out of his wits, no good at all. The King’s the man
for my money. ’Twas he sent orders to pull down houses so’s the fire
wouldn’t have nothing to feed on; but bless me! the Lord Mayor goes up
and down wringing his hands and crying, ‘What can I do?’ But I’m dead
beat, I say: all day and all night at it; I’ll drop asleep where I sit.”

“Pardon,” said the Frenchman’s voice in the doorway. “You are of return.
Tell me, I pray, the house: is it safe?”

“Don’t worrit about the house, Mounseer,” said Gollop. “There’s more
call to worrit about yourself. Keep below deck, that’s my advice to you.
The people are raging about all foreigners, specially French and Dutch,
and if they catch you in the street, ten to one they’ll do you a
mischief. I saw a Frenchman nearly torn limb from limb by a parcel of
women because he was carrying fire-balls, they said. Turned out to be
tennis-balls; that’s their ignorance. Don’t go out, Mounseer: what you
can’t help, make the best of.”

The Frenchman smiled and thanked him, and returned to his own apartment.

“You’re sure we’re safe, Gollop?” said Susan. “We can go to sleep in our
beds?”

“Sure I’m going to sleep in mine,” answered Gollop. “One more drink,
then——”

“If you’re so sure, why’s that Mr. Seymour so frightened, then? He’s
been going in and out all day; men have been traipsing up and down,
carrying out boxes and parcels and things. _He’s_ not so sure,
seemingly.”

The mention of Mr. Seymour reminded Martin of the button.

“I say, Susan,” he said, “where’s that button you found in the
cupboard?”

“Bless the boy! What’s buttons to do with it? It’s on the mantelshelf,
if you must know.”

Martin reached it down, examined it, and in a moment exclaimed:

“This is Mr. Seymour’s. His top button is missing. I saw him as he came
in.”

“Well!” said Susan.

“Gundra must have torn it off. It was Mr. Seymour spirited him away.”

“Did you ever! You hear that, Gollop?”

“Eh? What?” said Gollop, who was beginning to doze in his chair.

“That Indian boy was carried off in the night, and ’twas Mr. Seymour
done it. Poor little wretch! That’s kidnapping. You can’t go to sleep
yet: what’s your precious law say to that?”

“The law says,” muttered Gollop drowsily, “what you can’t help,
make——”

“Listen to me,” said his wife, shaking him. “You’ll just go upstairs at
once with this button and show it to that Seymour, and ask him what he
means by——”

“Avast there, woman!” cried the constable, heaving himself out of his
chair. “I’ll sheer off to my bed and nowhere else, not for all the laws
in the kingdom. Talk of buttons and nigger boys when all the world is
afire! I’m dead-beat, I say, and I’ll turn in this minute.”

He lurched away into the bedroom and shut the door with a bang.

Susan looked at the door as if in a mind to follow her husband and drag
him back. Then her face softened.

“Poor dear!” she said. “He’s that tired I never did see, and when a
man’s tired let him be, that’s what I say. But that there Seymour!” Her
lips shut tight. “Gollop can’t go, so I’ll go myself.”

“He won’t tell you anything,” said Martin.

“Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. But I’ll not rest till I know what he’s
done with that poor shrimp of a blackamoor. And if he won’t tell,
leastways I’ll show him the button, and ask whether he owns it, and I
warrant I’ll tell by the look on his face whether he’s a villain or
not.”

“I’ll go with you—light you upstairs,” said Martin, taking a candle
from the table.

“Go to bed, Lucy,” said Susan. “You are over-late already.”

“I want to know about the Indian boy,” said Lucy.

“Now, don’t make me cross. Go to bed at once; you shall hear all about
it in the morning.”

Smoothing her apron and setting her cap straight, Mrs. Gollop marched
out of the room, Martin following with the candle.

“_I’ll_ talk to him!” said the angry woman, as she began to climb the
stairs. “_I’ll_ teach him to come stealing down in the dead of night and
poking his nose into the rooms of honest people! _I’ll_ give him a piece
of my mind, and his ears will be all of a tingle before he’s done with
Susan Gollop!”

Martin noticed with amusement that the higher she got the lower fell the
tone of her voice, until by the time she reached Mr. Seymour’s door and
knocked, and asked, “Can I speak to you, sir?” her voice was as mild as
the cooing of a dove.

There was no answer. She knocked again.

“Mr. Seymour, sir!”

There was still no answer. She waited a moment or two, then summoned up
her resolution and turned the handle. To her surprise the door opened.
The room was dark.

“Show me a light,” she whispered.

Martin, with the candle, stepped in front of her. A glance showed that
the room was empty, except of the furniture and a quantity of litter on
the floor.

“Well, I declare!” Susan cried, in loud indignation. “He’s gone, and
took all his belongings. There’s a coward for you!”

Among the litter there were a few pieces of paper, suggesting that Mr.
Seymour had torn up old letters before he left. Martin, all his
suspicions revived, had the curiosity to collect these scraps.

“We can do nothing more,” he said. “I’d like to look at these bits of
paper carefully downstairs.”

“They’re just love-letters or other rubbidge,” scoffed Mrs. Gollop, “and
I’ve come up all these stairs for nothing at all!”

But half an hour later Martin, poring over the papers spread before him
on the table by the light of two candles, was inclined to think that the
journey had not been in vain. He had put together a number of scraps
that appeared to be all in the same handwriting, and by shifting their
positions until the torn edges fitted together he had composed a
sentence or two that clearly formed part of a letter. What he read was
as follows:

_. . . . Maria sails on Tuesday. All cargo must be stowed by Monday.
Tell W. S. that I do not communicate with him direct, for reasons which
. . ._

There was no more. Martin was at no loss to understand that the vessel
sailing on Tuesday was the _Santa Maria_; nor was it long before he came
to another conclusion. W. S. were the initials of his old employer,
William Slocum.




                        CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD


                        ’PRENTICES TO THE RESCUE

Dick Gollop and Martin both rose very late next morning. They left the
house together, but soon parted, the former to return to his duty, the
latter to resume his self-imposed office of helping people in need.

The Fire was still raging unchecked, and was spreading from the
riverside streets towards the heart of the city. Many people who had
indulged a careless belief in the safety of their dwellings had now
flown to the opposite extreme of panic and despair, and the supply of
carts, barrows, and wherries was hopelessly unequal to the demands of
those anxious to save their goods. The streets in every direction were
blocked by frantic fugitives, and the fields north of the city were
already dotted with the encampments of homeless people.

When Martin reached the stairs where he had left his boat he found that
it had disappeared. It was hopeless to look for it among the hundreds
that were plying on the river, and Martin, feeling himself deprived of
his occupation, made his way westwards, first with the idea of inquiring
after Mr. Faryner, and then of getting a view of the progress of the
Fire.

As he was jostling his way among the crowds who were moving up
Cheapside, he was thrown against the old Frenchman, struggling along in
the opposite direction. It flashed into his mind that Mounseer might
have been paying another visit to Mr. Slocum, and his former feeling of
puzzlement returned with redoubled force.

“Ah, my friend, what do you here?” asked the old man.

“My boat has been taken,” replied Martin, looking around rather
anxiously; for the Frenchman’s words must have been heard by the persons
near him, and his accent, coupled with the cut of his clothes and his
general appearance, would certainly betray him as a foreigner.

“So you have nothing to do,” the Frenchman continued. “Same as me; your
little sister go not to the school to-day, therefore am I unoccupied. I
enjoy the holiday,” he added, with a smile. “We shall enjoy it together,
eh?”

“Hadn’t you better go home, sir?” said Martin, remembering what Gollop
had said overnight about the mob’s treatment of foreigners.

“Not at all, not at all. This great sight interest me very much. You
shall take me to a place where the spectacle is most beautiful.”

Martin noticed one or two people scowling, and wished that Mounseer
would hold his tongue. Determined to draw him away from the main stream
of traffic he turned into an alley-way, intending to go by back streets
as far as St. Paul’s, where, perhaps, the sacristan might allow them to
ascend the tower.

Their course led them past the back entrance to Mr. Greatorex’s
premises. Just before they reached it a man came out and walked towards
Cheapside. Martin and the Frenchman recognised him at the same moment;
he was the man whose scarred face they had seen at the window—the man
who had knocked Martin down in Whitefriars.

“What next?” thought Martin. This was a new shock of surprise. Was this
man also among Mr. Slocum’s acquaintances? The idea would never have
occurred to Martin but for his thorough distrust of Mr. Slocum, and a
strange suspicion was dawning on his mind when his attention was
diverted by a sudden movement of the Frenchman, who hurried after the
man, seized his arm, and began to speak excitedly in French.

The man stared, swore, caught sight of Martin, then suddenly shouted:

“Frenchy! Ho, boys, here’s one of the foreign spies what sets us afire.
Down with all Frenchies!”

They were near the end of the lane, and the man’s words were heard and
taken up by the crowd in Cheapside. A number of roughs surged towards
them, and the accuser, finding himself supported, turned on the
Frenchman, dealt him a violent blow, and started to tear his coat off.

“Away, you coward!” cried Martin, rushing forward to help the old
gentleman; but a burly ruffian caught him in his arms and hurled him
back.

At this moment there was a cry from behind.

“Why, it’s Martin Leake! Clubs! Clubs! ’Prentices to the rescue!”

A tall figure dashed past Martin, who was staggering under the big man’s
assault, and with doubled fists attacked the aggressor with a whirling
ferocity that drove him back reeling. In the lad who had come to his
help Martin recognised his fellow-'prentice and opponent, George Hopton.

Next moment from several doors in the neighbourhood darted one or more
flat-capped ’prentices brandishing the clubs from which they took their
rallying cry.

For centuries the London ’prentices had been renowned for their prowess
in faction fights among themselves and against the rougher elements of
the population. The street now rang with the cry “Clubs! Clubs!” and
those formidable weapons were soon thudding on the heads and shoulders
of the rabble.

The Frenchman had fallen to the ground, but rose when his assailant
turned to defend himself against the ’prentices, and leant, bruised and
shaken, against the wall. The success of the ’prentices’ attack was due
to its suddenness rather than its strength. There were only about six of
them altogether, and the man with the scar, seeing that no more were
joining them, again raised his cry of “Down with all Frenchies!” and
called on all true Englishmen to support him.

By this time the crowd had increased, and several truculent fellows
broke from it and rushed towards the fight. They were heavier metal than
the ’prentice lads; soon they outnumbered them; the little band was
forced back step by step, some of them losing their clubs to the enemy.
The combat swept past the old Frenchman, carrying Martin with it, and in
a few moments the ’prentices would have suffered a disastrous rout had
not a loud shout in a tone of authority imposed a sudden peace.

All eyes were turned upon the speaker, an elderly gentleman wearing a
well-curled periwig, and a coat of purple cloth, and carrying a
gold-headed cane which he brandished at the crowd. Martin recognised him
as the important customer of Mr. Slocum’s who had been hustled in the
course of his fight with George Hopton.

“Back, rascals!” cried the gentleman. “Are you fools enough to believe
these absurd tales of foreign incendiaries? I tell you there’s no ground
for them. Foreigners in our midst should be treated as guests. Your
conduct is a disgrace to Englishmen and citizens of London. Away with
you, and find something useful to do.”

“Hurrah for Mr. Pemberton!” cried the ’prentices.

The combatants shamefacedly drew back and mingled with the more
peaceable spectators. Martin hurried to the old Frenchman’s side.

“What! You again!” said Mr. Pemberton, recognising him. “Are you always
fighting?”

“I owe my life to him and the others,” began Mounseer.

[Illustration]

“You had better go home, sir,” was the reply, “and remain within doors
while men’s minds are affected by this great calamity. As for you lads,
I hope, though I don’t expect, that you will always use your clubs in as
good a cause.”

He moved away, followed by another cheer from the ’prentices, and Martin
started to accompany the Frenchman home, supporting him on his arm.
George Hopton and one or two other ’prentices set off to see them a
little distance on their way.

In a few moments they became aware that the man with the scar was
skulking after them.

“Whoop!” cried Hopton. “Clubs! Clubs!”

With his fellow ’prentices he turned and chased the man, who did not
wait their onslaught, but dived into a narrow entry and disappeared. And
all the way home Martin was wondering what the baffled ruffian had to do
with Mr. Slocum.




                       CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH


                        MR. SLOCUM MOVES AT LAST

Anxious to avoid any repetition of the attack on Mounseer, Martin
conducted the old gentleman across Cheapside into Wood Street, intending
to go home by way of Aldermanbury and Cripplegate, though it involved a
long round. George Hopton accompanied them for some little distance,
then he stopped.

“I say, I must go back,” he said, “or Slocum will be in a rage. I don’t
know what’s come to him. He seems to have lost his wits. Most of the
other goldsmiths have removed their valuables to the Tower, and Slocum
has been urged to do the same. But he refuses. ‘Time enough, time
enough,’ he says, ‘the Fire is by the river; it may not reach as far as
Cheapside.’”

“I think he’s wrong,” said Martin. “What’s to stop it?”

“That’s what everybody says. But his answer is that the goods are safer
in the vaults than they’d be if he moved them; there are thieves about.
That’s true enough; I’ve heard of several shops having been robbed. But
though Slocum talks like that he has been packing the stock. At least, I
suppose he has; he hasn’t asked for any help from me. He was in the
strong-room nearly all day yesterday, alone, and we heard hammering time
after time.”

“He’s not so stupid after all,” Martin rejoined. “I suppose he talks to
keep up other people’s courage, though he’s making preparations to go.
But he’ll be lucky if he gets a cart. There are so many doing the same
thing that there aren’t enough carts to go round.”

“Well, I must go,” said Hopton, adding in a whisper: “Keep the old man
indoors. I mayn’t be at hand next time.”

“Thanks for your help,” said Martin, with a smile: Hopton certainly did
not suffer from an excess of modesty.

Mounseer himself seemed to have realised at last that his friends had
given him good advice. He walked quickly, begged Martin to keep close to
him, and declared that he would not stir from the house again until the
Fire had ceased and the excitement died down.

When they reached home they found Dick Gollop snatching a meal. He told
Martin that the services of the constables were not so necessary in the
streets now that the troops had arrived to keep order.

“But it’s a terrible calamity,” he said, “and I’m afeard we’re not near
the end yet. The flames are spreading: they’ve got across Cannon Street,
and I was pretty near stifled as I came through Bucklersbury by the
stench from the druggists’ shops. I passed the back of your old place,
Martin. Does Mr. Seymour know Slocum?”

“Why?” asked Martin.

“Because I saw him coming out of the door. There was a sneaking way
about him. ‘Hallo!’ thinks I, ‘has my fine gentleman been to pawn
something?’ Then I thought maybe he knew Slocum, though you’ve never
said you saw him at the shop.”

Martin thought it was time to acquaint the constable with what he knew
of the relations between Slocum and Seymour and the captain of the
_Santa Maria_. He spoke of Blackbeard’s visits by night, and the
brass-bound boxes, and the meeting in Mr. Pasqua’s coffee-house.

“You ought to have told me all that before,” said Gollop reproachfully
when the story was concluded. “Me being a man of law, ’twould have been
proper I should know of them queer goings on.”

“I did try, but you shut me up,” said Martin.

“So I did. I was wrong. I own it; dash my sleepy head! Never you sleep
your brains away, my lad. Them brass boxes, now. There’s no telling what
mischief’s in them boxes. Still, what you can’t help, make the best of,
and I say no more for the present. When the Fire’s over maybe I’ll look
into things a bit: I’ve no time for it now—indeed, I must get back to
my duty.”

He went out hurriedly, before Martin had related what had happened to
the old Frenchman. Susan and Lucy, when that story was told, were both
indignant at the crowd’s treatment of their friend, and nothing would
satisfy the girl but that she must take him a bowl of syllabub to
comfort him, as she said.

Martin was too restless to remain indoors. The fascination of the Fire
drew him again into the streets, which were now still more congested,
the stream of fugitives hurrying to the fields meeting a stream of
countrymen whom the prospect of making money by hiring out their carts
had drawn to the City. The roar of the flames, the crash of falling
houses, the cries and oaths of the people struggling to save their
goods, the smells from burning oil and spices, the blazing flakes
fantastically whirling in the wind, made up a series of vivid
impressions that remained in Martin’s memory for many a day.

Towards evening he found himself again in the neighbourhood of Mr.
Slocum’s house. He had not gone there of set purpose, but had been drawn
there unconsciously, perhaps, by a vague recollection of Dick Gollop’s
remarks.

Going down the lane towards the back entrance, he was brought to a halt
by the sight of a large hand-truck at the door. The three ’prentices, in
their shirt sleeves, were loading it with boxes under the direction of
Mr. Slocum.

“He’s scared at last,” thought Martin. “But what a strange time to
choose for going away.”

He remained in a shady corner, watching. It was certainly high time that
the goldsmith’s valuables were removed, for the Fire had reached the
foot of the streets leading up to Cheapside.

The loading was finished a few minutes after Martin’s arrival, and the
’prentices put on their coats.

“Am I not to come, sir?” Martin heard Hopton say.

“No; you are to stay and guard the shop. Jenks and Butler can wheel the
truck. Too many of us would attract attention, and the dusk will bring
out the thieves.”

He threw a sheet over the truck, tying it down at the corners. So far as
appearance went, the load might have consisted only of household goods
like those which hundreds of citizens had been moving all the day.

The two younger ’prentices seized the handles of the truck and wheeled
it up the lane. Martin, shrinking back in his corner, noticed that Mr.
Slocum, walking close behind, had a pistol projecting from his pocket.

When they had turned into Cheapside, Martin went up to Hopton as he was
going back to the door.

“Hallo!” said Hopton. “Is the Frenchman in trouble again?”

“No; he won’t stir out again,” replied Martin. “So Slocum has moved at
last.”

“The lunatic! Why didn’t he go earlier? He’ll have to make a long round
to get to the Tower, and it will be nearly dark before he arrives: just
the time for footpads to attack him. There’s nobody left in the house,
or I’d follow and see that he gets there safely.”

“I’ll go,” said Martin, once more amused at Hopton’s idea of his own
importance.

Hopton gave a snort. “What could you do if they were attacked?” he
asked. “You’ve no weapons.”

“But I could shout.”

“Go, then. It’s no concern of yours, but you might raise a hullabaloo if
anything happens. I suppose I must kick my heels here until Slocum
releases me, though I promise you I won’t stay if the flames come
anywhere near.”

Martin set off, but during the minute or two he had been talking with
Hopton the barrow had passed out of sight among the thronging people.
Knowing that it must take a northerly direction in order to skirt the
Fire, he crossed Cheapside and dodged his way into Milk Street, the
nearest of the streets branching out of the main thoroughfare. There was
no sign of the barrow, yet it could not have got far, owing to the
crowd.

He struck into a by-lane and came to Wood Street. The crowd here was not
so thick, and he was able to move more quickly. At the corner of Silver
Street he stopped and looked round on all sides. The evening gloom was
already descending, though the glow in the sky lit up the over-arching
houses.

“I shall never find them now,” he thought. But just at that moment the
grinding of wheels on the cobbles drew his attention. He glanced round
and saw the barrow coming along from the direction of the Guildhall.

“They tried that way and couldn’t get through, I suppose,” he said to
himself, and slipped into the entrance of a yard until the barrow had
passed. “Now to keep them in sight.”




                        CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH


                             MARTIN FOLLOWS

Martin could hardly have explained why he felt so keenly interested in
the progress of the barrow. Mr. Slocum was only doing what most of the
goldsmiths had already done, and it was certainly his duty to save the
property of his master, Mr. Greatorex. But recent incidents had inspired
Martin with so deep a distrust of Mr. Slocum that he was determined not
to lose sight of him until the barrow had safely entered the portals of
the Tower.

He kept far enough behind not to be observed, yet close enough to run no
risk of missing the party again.

“I’m glad I’m not shoving the barrow,” he thought.

The air that summer evening was hot, and its oppressiveness was enhanced
by the pervasive smell of burning. Martin followed the toiling
’prentices into Aldersgate Street and turned after them into London
Wall, expecting them to swing to the right at Bishopsgate, and so finish
their long round to the Tower.

To his surprise, they took the eastward direction, and struck into a
winding lane that would bring them, certainly, to the river, but at a
point far away from their supposed destination. Martin was conscious of
a growing curiosity, even of excitement. The lane was narrow, and as the
dusk was deepening he lessened the distance between him and the barrow.
But a little farther on, where the lane made a sharp curve, he hung back
for a moment to give the party time to get well round the corner.

As he did so a man came suddenly round on the inside of the curve,
brushed past him, and continued his course up the lane towards the main
street. Martin glanced round; the man was fast disappearing into the
dusk, but there was something in his shape and gait that reminded Martin
vaguely of someone he had seen, he could not remember when or where. The
impression passed in a moment, and he hurried on, anxious not to lose
sight of his quarry.

Turning the corner, he found himself between parallel lines of tall
warehouses, some flush with the lane, others standing back behind small
yards in which goods were no doubt unloaded. He had not taken many steps
when he heard shrill cries ahead, and broke into a run, wondering why
thieves had been attracted to so quiet a spot, remote from the crowds.

Some thirty yards ahead the lane made another sharp twist. When Martin
reached the bend he was just in time to see, dimly in the fading light,
one of the ’prentices being shoved by a man through the gateway of a
warehouse yard. The barrow, Mr. Slocum, and the other ’prentice were
already out of sight.

Martin recognised the voice of the lad who was being roughly used as
that of Butler, and he dashed on at his topmost speed, shouting as he
ran. For a moment he had no other thought than to save the lad who had
been his fellow-'prentice from the hands of his assailant. But before he
gained the scene the wooden gate was banged to; he heard the grating of
a bolt and Butler’s protesting cries as he was lugged across the yard.

He looked up. The gate and the wall on either side of it were at least
ten feet high; their tops were studded with nails or jagged glass; even
if he found a foothold it would be impossible to scale them. He banged
at the door, still shouting; but there was no response. Work in the
warehouse was over for the day, and no doubt any workmen or loungers who
might ordinarily have been about were far away, watching the Fire. The
cries of Butler had ceased; within the yard all was silent.

Feeling that to knock or shout any longer here would merely be wasting
time, Martin wondered whether he could find admittance at the back of
the warehouse. He ran on a few yards and came upon a narrow passage
striking off at right angles to the lane. At a venture he turned into
this, and found himself within a few moments in a lane that evidently
ran parallel with the one he had left.

He had only just rounded the corner when he heard the rattling of cart
wheels on the cobbles at the river-end of the lane, and caught sight of
a few strange figures dimly outlined against the background of sky.

“Stop thief!” he shouted, dashing down the lane.

For some minutes he had been so confused that he only now guessed that
Mr. Slocum’s barrow had entered by the gateway through which Butler had
been forced; otherwise it could scarcely have disappeared so suddenly.
As he ran, calling for help, he noticed that a large gateway, with a
wicket beside it, stood wide open on his left. He rushed up to the first
man he overtook.

“There is villainy going on,” he said. “Help me!”

“I’m helping myself,” the man growled; and the strangeness of his figure
was accounted for by the huge bundle he carried on his back. He was one
of the fugitives who were conveying their possessions to the river in
the hope of finding a boat.

Martin ran on, and in the fast-gathering darkness cannoned into another
man laden almost as heavily.

“Mind your steps!” shouted the man; and with his free hand he dealt
Martin a blow that sent him staggering against the wall. Recovering
himself he dashed on, his cries to one and another going unheeded.
People were too much concerned with their own troubles to regard the
vague demands of a lad.

And then suddenly he found himself on the edge of a little quay
stretching into the river. There was a reddish glow reflected from the
water, and by this light he recognised, at the farther end of the quay,
the handcart he had lost sight of. It was standing deserted. A boat was
putting off, piled with boxes. The glow of the fire glinted on their
brass-bound corners and on the swarthy face of Blackbeard, who held the
tiller strings while two other men rowed steadily down stream.

Beyond the quay there were two or three other boats into which fugitive
citizens were dumping their goods.

“Row after that boat!” Martin cried to the watermen. “It contains stolen
goods.”

“Not the only one,” chuckled one of the men.

“Things of great value,” Martin persisted, looking round in vain to find
a waterman whom he knew. “The owner will reward you richly.”

“Out of my way,” cried the man with whom Martin had collided. “What’s
your fare, waterman?”

“Five shillings a mile,” the man replied.

“You’re a shark, making your profit out of other folk’s calamities. But
I suppose I must pay you, though ’tis five times the proper price. Take
this bundle.”

Seeing that the watermen were too intent on present gain to trouble
about a visionary reward, Martin turned away. And then he asked himself,
what had become of Slocum and the other ’prentice? They were certainly
not with Blackbeard in the boat. Was it possible that they too had been
carried prisoners into the warehouse?

He retraced his steps and came to the large gateway which he had guessed
to be the main entrance to the warehouse. It was now closed, as was also
the wicket at the side. He was trying the latch when a man came up
behind.

“Want to get in, eh? Well, so you shall.”

Martin turned hastily, and recognised with alarm the sinister face of
the man with the scar.

Before he could recover his wits he was seized in an iron grip. His
captor inserted a key in the lock of the wicket gate, turned it, and
snarling: “Oh, you shall get in, you shall,” pushed Martin before him
into the yard.




                        CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH


                               PRISONERS

Just inside the gate, on the right, was a small brick cabin, where
during working hours the gatekeeper attended for the purpose of checking
merchandise that entered or left the yard. It was now closed; its window
was shuttered; but a streak of light shone between the door and the
lintel.

Grasping Martin firmly with one hand, with the other the man unlocked
the door, and pushed his prisoner in. An oil lamp stood on a table, and
on a chair near it sat Mr. Slocum. He started up on seeing Martin.

“Heavens above! Have they caught you too?” he exclaimed, with an air of
genuine surprise.

Martin glanced from him to his captor, and caught a fleeting grin on
that man’s face.

“But how came you in this unhappy plight?” Slocum went on, speaking very
rapidly. “Why should the wretches attack you? In my own case the
explanation is simple. I set out to save Mr. Greatorex’s property from
this disastrous Fire, with Jenks and Butler; you remember them? We were
suddenly rushed upon by half a dozen footpads, hustled into the yard,
and while I was shut up here the ’prentice lads were taken—who knows
where?”

“Not far,” said the man, grinning again. “Not so very far. You can see
’em out in the yard there.”

He pointed through the open doorway. Shading his eyes against the light,
Martin saw dimly two figures with their backs to the wall, and a big
fellow apparently standing guard over them.

“You can cheer each other up,” said the man, going out and locking the
door behind him.

“A monstrous outrage!” said Slocum. “But what have the villains against
you?”

“I’d like to know that myself,” said Martin, cautiously.

“You were passing up from the waterside, no doubt?” said Slocum.

“No; I was going the other way.”

“Strange coincidence! You saw the ruffians attack me?”

“No, I did not.”

Martin’s answers were short. He guessed that the object of Slocum’s
questions were to ascertain how much he knew, and though he had been
almost taken in by Slocum’s manner, he now suspected that his surprise
had been feigned, and that he was playing a part.

“Well, it is a gross attack on our personal liberty,” Slocum continued;
“and I won’t stand it!”

He rose with an air of grim determination, and hammered sharply on the
door. The man with the scar entered.

“Enough of this foolery!” said Slocum, elbowing the man from the
doorway. “Let me out, fellow. I warn you that you are incurring
punishment of the highest severity in holding two citizens in durance!”

“Take it easy; none of your shoving,” said the man. “You can’t go out
without I get orders.”

“Orders! From whom do you get your orders?”

“That’s my look-out.”

“You are insolent, fellow! Don’t dare to use that tone to me! I will not
put up with insolence from a ruffian and a gaol-bird!”

“Who are you a-calling a gaol-bird?” said the man, scowling fiercely.

Martin had already suspected that the men were play-acting. It now
seemed that the captor had forgotten his part, and was taking Slocum’s
expressions seriously. Slocum realised that he had gone too far with a
person of limited intelligence, and hastened to reassure him by
pantomimic signs which, slight as they were, did not pass unobserved by
Martin.

“I demand to be taken outside,” Slocum went on. “I want air. What with
the hot evening and the stinking lamp this place is suffocating.”

“Well, I’ve no orders to stifle you,” said the man. Thereupon, he took
Slocum by the sleeve and marched him out into the yard. Martin was
following, but the man turned at the door, thrust him back, and locked
him in. “Your turn presently,” he said.

Martin sat down on the chair. He was convinced that Slocum and the man
were acting in collusion, and supposed that their object was to retain
him for an hour or two until the boat conveying Mr. Greatorex’s
valuables had got away. Remembering that the _Santa Maria_ was to sail
next day, he felt sure that those valuables would form part of her
freight, the fruits of a conspiracy in which Slocum, Blackbeard, and
Seymour were concerned.

Waiting in the hot, stuffy room soon became tedious and uncomfortable.
Martin got up and tried the door and the window; both were securely
fastened against him. Presently he heard voices outside, the creaking of
the gate, and the rattle of wheels on the cobbles of the yard. A minute
or two later the key was turned in the lock, the door was thrown open,
and three men, one of them the man with the scar, who was now carrying a
lantern, stamped into the room. They stood for a moment looking at
Martin.

“Why not leave him here?” said one of them. “’Twill save trouble.”

“Won’t do,” said the man with the scar. “There’ll be folk about in the
morning; he’ll be found, and then—you see he knows too much.”

“Well, then, why not shut his mouth? The river’s handy. With a stone
round his neck——”

“Stow your gab, Bill,” interrupted the other irritably. “We can’t drown
’em all. Besides, orders is orders, so you’d better set about it.”

Martin had risen at their entrance, and stood facing them, his heart
beating rather quickly and his cheeks flushing as he listened to this
frank discussion of his fate. He was not prepared for what happened. The
man who had wished to save trouble made a sudden pounce, flung his arm
round Martin’s neck, and deftly slipped a gag into his mouth. He was
then tripped up, and as he lay on the floor his hands were roped
together, and he was shoved into a sack that covered him completely.

Thus bundled up, he was carried into the yard and dumped into the
handcart, which had been brought empty from the quay. The cart jolted
over the cobbles; he heard the gate slammed behind him, and wondered to
what destination the men had orders to convey him.

The jolting did not last long. In a minute or two the legs of the
handcart were let down with a bump, and Martin was hoisted out. His head
being covered, he could not see where he had been brought, but he felt
himself being carried downstairs, then flung down upon boards that
rocked under his weight. He was in a boat.

He judged by their voices that two of the three men got into the boat
after him. It moved away, and through the sack he heard the men talking
of matters he knew nothing about. After a journey that seemed much
longer than it was the boat stopped; he felt its side grate against
stone. He was lifted out and carried up a few steps, then for some yards
on the level.

Once more he was set down. There was a knock upon a door; after an
interval of waiting the bolts were drawn; some words were exchanged
between his bearers and the man who had opened; then he was carried
along, up a flight of stairs, and finally dropped roughly to the floor.

“Cut the sack open,” said one of the men. “Better give him some air and
take the gag out,” he added. “He won’t do no harm now.”

The string was cut, and the sack pulled down to his shoulders.

“Best tie him up,” said one.

“He can’t get away.”

“Never mind that; let’s make it sure.”

A rope was tied round the middle of the sack, and knotted to a staple in
the wall.

“Now all’s snug,” said a man. “We’ve lost enough time over him; let’s
get back to the City; we ought to be able to prig a thing or two out of
those fine shops in Cheapside.”




                       CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH


                           MARTIN FINDS A WAY

By the light of the lantern carried by the man with the scar Martin had
made a hasty survey of his prison. It was a large, empty room,
apparently part of a disused warehouse. When the men went away they took
the lantern with them, leaving the place in complete darkness.

Martin was at once aware of sounds of movement on the floor
above—sounds of heavy cases or bales being dragged over the boards. At
intervals also he heard a creaking that suggested the lowering of goods
over a rusty pulley.

“Where am I?” he thought.

The sounds lulled, and his ears caught a slight rustle in the room
itself.

“Rats!” he said to himself. “I hope they won’t attack me.”

During the next pause in the louder sounds he heard another rustle
somewhat more prolonged, a faint clanking, and he had the strange
feeling that some human being besides himself was in the room. Startled,
he called out quickly: “Who’s there?”

From some distant corner came a thin, piping voice:

“Me, Gundra.”

“Gundra!” He felt surprise and relief; the Indian boy was at least a
friend. “Come and untie me.”

“Me no can,” was the reply.

“Why not?”

“Me tied, too.”

“How?”

“To thing in the wall. No can move it.”

“Your hands tied?”

“No; a band round me, tight.”

Martin guessed that the boy, like himself, was fastened to a staple,
which was out of his reach. It was clear that neither could get to the
other.

But Martin was not ready to admit that the situation was hopeless. His
hands, it is true, were tied, so that he could not loose the knot at the
staple, and he knew that if he strained on the rope he would only
tighten the knot. It might be possible to jerk the staple from the wall.
He made several attempts, but finding that there was no sound of tearing
wood, no yielding of the metal, he bent his mind to considering another
way.

There was only a few feet of rope between him and the staple. By a
series of convulsive jerks he managed to wriggle over the floor until he
lay at the foot of the wall. Supporting himself against it, he got on to
his knees, and was then able to touch the rope with his mouth. He asked
himself whether it would be easier to cut through it with his teeth, or
to rise to his feet, trace the rope to the staple, and work away until
he had loosed the knot.

Before he could make up his mind he heard heavy footsteps outside,
growing louder as they approached. Instantly he dropped to the floor,
wriggled back to his former position, and, when the door opened, lay on
his elbow as though he were incapable of rising higher.

Through a door at the farther end of the room came Sebastian, the fat
cook of the _Santa Maria_. From one hand swung a horn lantern; in the
other he carried a large platter holding a pitcher of water and a hunk
of bread. He crossed to the corner where Gundra lay, gave him a kick,
set the platter beside him, then moved along to Martin, and leered down
upon him, pouring out a stream of abuse in his own language. Having
examined the staple and rope, he laughed maliciously, banged Martin’s
head with the lantern, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Martin had taken advantage of the lantern light to make a careful mental
note of the position of the staple. As soon as the sound of Sebastian’s
footsteps had died away he wriggled again to the wall, rose upon his
knees, then upon his feet, and began to tug with his teeth at the knot
about the staple.

For some time he toiled in vain, trying one part of the knot after
another. Despairingly he felt that his teeth would yield before the
hempen rope. But presently he was aware of a slight loosening, and
taking heart, he continued to bite at the same coil. To his joy the knot
grew looser and looser; the second coil was easier to undo than the
first; now he felt the free end of the rope slipping out, and in a few
more minutes it was clear of the staple and dropped on the floor.

His lips were sore, his jaw ached intolerably; and the uneasy posture he
had had to maintain had strained his muscles to the point of extreme
fatigue. For a while he lay quietly resting, not even telling Gundra
that he was free. The noises still continued on the upper floor.

At length he started to jerk and worm his way across the floor.

“I’m coming to untie you,” he said in a low tone.

Moving only inch by inch, with frequent pauses for rest, he was a long
time in reaching the Indian boy’s corner. When at last he rolled beside
him he said:

“Now, your hands are free; untie the rope round the sack.”

Gundra groped with his fingers, and found the knot, but it had been so
well tied that it was some minutes before he succeeded in loosening it.
Then he pulled the sack away, and made a shorter job of untying Martin’s
hands.

“Now to release you,” said Martin; “but I must wait until my hands are
less cramped. What is this place, Gundra?”

“A big godown by the river,” replied the boy. “Plenty goods upstairs,
belong for _Santa Maria_.”

Martin suddenly remembered that on the evening when he had rowed
Blackbeard down the river his passenger had directed him at first to row
towards a large warehouse on the bank, but had changed his mind. No
doubt this was the very warehouse which had been chosen for the
safe-keeping of the boys. It was plain, too, that it had been used as a
place of storage for ill-gotten goods until the time came when they
might safely be transferred to the _Santa Maria_.

“If only I can get out,” Martin thought, “I’ll be in time to put a spoke
in Blackbeard’s wheel.”

He felt over Gundra’s body to ascertain how he was fastened. About his
middle was a steel girdle, connected by a fine chain with the staple in
the wall. Martin discovered in a few moments that it was impossible to
detach the chain at either end; the links, though small, were of tough
metal, and gave no sign of yielding under the strongest strain he could
put upon them.

“This is thirsty work,” said Martin. “I’ll take a drink from your
pitcher, Gundra. They haven’t brought me any water or food; I suppose
they think they’ll tame me. They don’t starve you?”

“No; give food; not much.”

“And how long have you been here?”

Gundra explained that in the dead of Saturday night someone had come
into the cupboard under the stairs, gagged him, and carried him out of
the house. He had struggled hard.

“That accounts for Mr. Seymour’s button,” thought Martin. “But how am I
to get Gundra free?”

He sat for a while considering, with his knees up and his chin on his
hands. “I’ll try it,” he exclaimed at length.

The staple was driven deep into the wall, but Martin’s idea was that its
setting might be loosened by picking at the wood around it, and that
then a tug would wrench it away. Opening his clasp knife he began to
scrape and chip at the wood, which being oak offered a considerable
resistance to his rather blunt blade. More than once he pulled at the
staple without detecting any sign of its yielding.

“What about a violent jerk?” he thought.

He explained to Gundra what he proposed to do. They both stood close to
the wall. Martin got his hands firmly between Gundra’s body and the
steel girdle; then at the same moment both he and the Indian made a
sudden leap into the room. The staple was torn from its setting; the
boys fell in a heap on the floor, and the metal rattled and clanged.
Clasping each other, they listened breathlessly. Had the sounds been
heard by the men above?

There were no cries, no sudden movement, no footsteps. Every now and
then came the creaking of the pulley-block which had been going on at
intervals ever since Martin had been brought into the room, and the
exchange of a few words between the men who were presumably attending to
the lowering of the goods. They were too much occupied with their task
to notice the sounds in the room.

“Now to get out!” said Martin in a whisper. “I think I can find my way
to the door.”

“Me come; no let go,” said Gundra, clinging to him.

They moved together in the direction of the door. The chain on the
Indian boy’s girdle clanked.

“This won’t do,” said Martin. “Tuck it up inside the belt.”

When this was done they started again. Martin had taken his bearings by
the light of the fat cook’s lantern, but in the pitch darkness he was at
fault, and it was only by feeling round the wall that they at last
reached the door. It was locked. There was no escape that way.

“Any windows?” asked Martin.

“No, sahib. But another door; oh, yes, over there.”

“You have seen it open?”

“No, but see light in crack.”

“Then we’ll make for that. Keep close to me.”




                       CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH


                            THE BOYS ESCAPE

The two boys groped across the room to find the second door. Suddenly
Martin tripped and almost fell; he had stepped into a hole where the
floor-boards were rotted away.

“Take care, Gundra,” he said, recovering himself.

He felt on the floor to ascertain the size of the gap, then led the
Indian boy cautiously across it, and almost immediately touched a wall.
Passing his hand along it, he came upon an iron bar.

“I think this is it,” he said.

Feeling along the bar and the wall behind it, he discovered a vertical
crack.

“A folding door,” he thought. “Now to lift the bar and see if we can
open the door and find out where it leads to.”

The bar was thick and heavy, and so well settled down into its sockets
that it had evidently not been used for some time. Martin’s efforts to
lift it at first had no success, but after much pulling and pushing it
shifted upward suddenly with a loud squeaking noise.

The boys held their breath, wondering whether the sound had been heard
in the room above. But the slow creaking still went on, and Martin
ventured to raise the bar from its place and lay it gently on the floor.

There was an iron ring in one of the panels of the double door.
Inserting his finger in this Martin pulled, and the panel, sticking at
first, presently came inward with a squeak; clearly its hinges needed
oiling. Inch by inch he drew it towards him. A strong breeze blew into
the room, carrying with it a salt tang. The clear sky eastward was
studded with stars, which kindled reflections in the river. Nearer at
hand a reddish glow suffused the sky.

While they were gazing out there was a creak above them, much louder
than they had heard before, and a large object dangling at the end of a
rope passed slowly downward within a yard of their faces. It was plain
that goods were being let down from the store-room above with some care
to avoid noise, for there was no shouting, no giving and receiving
directions, no cries of “Are you ready?” “Lower away!” such as were
usual in operations of the kind.

Holding on by the door, Martin bent down and peered over the edge,
careful to keep out of sight. The package that had been lowered rested
on a sort of quay between the wall of the warehouse and the shored-up
bank of the river. A man was disengaging it from the rope. When it was
free he shook the rope as a signal that it might be drawn up, then
hoisted the package on to a truck and wheeled it along the quay until he
came to a short jetty. There he halted and lowered it over the side;
evidently a boat was moored below. Apparently the tide was too low to
allow of the boat’s drawing in nearer to the bank.

Meanwhile a second load came slowly down over the pulley, and reached
the ground with a slight jolt. The man had not yet returned from the
jetty with the truck. Martin wondered whether it would be possible to
slide down the rope without attracting attention. The stars gave very
little light, and the glow from the Fire was intercepted by the angle of
the warehouse. The distance from the door to the ground was less than
twenty feet.

Leaning out he cautiously tried the rope. It gave under a slight pull,
showing that the man above was no longer holding it firmly. But he must
have noticed the movement, for Martin heard a hoarse voice whisper,
“Don’t pull the rope through the block, you fool!”

He shrank back into the room.

“Are you there?” whispered the voice again.

At this moment the man below reached the package on the ground.

“What’s the matter?” he growled.

“I said, don’t pull on the rope!” repeated the man above.

“Didn’t touch it!” responded the other gruffly.

There was an inaudible reply from the upper storey. The second load was
discharged and trundled away, the rope again wound up, and by the time
the man returned from the jetty a third package had been lowered.

By this time Martin had arrived at a conclusion. If he and Gundra were
to escape by the rope, they must cling to it while it was descending
weighted with a load, and while the man below was still absent at the
jetty. There was the risk of their being discovered through the man at
the pulley feeling the extra drag on the rope, or through the return of
the other man while they were still suspended in the air. Even should
they reach the ground safely, there was the further risk of their being
intercepted, for they would have to pass the jetty on their left, and go
through the lower floor of the warehouse, the quay on the right
apparently ending at a high blank wall.

But it was clear that they must either face these risks, with a chance,
however slight, of escaping, or remain as prisoners in the room, with
the certainty that the breaking of their bonds would be discovered as
soon as fat Sebastian paid them his next visit.

In rapid whispers Martin explained his plan to the Indian boy. Timid as
Gundra had hitherto appeared, it was plain that ill-usage had not
utterly broken his spirit, for he agreed eagerly to make the attempt,
and promised to follow Martin’s instructions faithfully.

“I will go first,” said Martin, with the idea of giving Gundra
confidence. “We can’t both go down with the same load. You must wait for
the next, but don’t come down till you see I am safe.”

They waited, tingling with impatience and excitement, until once more a
heavy package came swaying past the open door. As soon as it had
descended below the sill, Martin took a firm hold of the rope and swung
off. There was a louder creaking of the pulley above, a more violent
oscillation of the load, a sudden quickening of the rate of descent;
then the slow, even movement was resumed.

Martin glanced up. The pulley block hung from the wall above a similar
door some twelve feet above. The man who operated the machine was not
visible.

Martin slid down until his feet touched the package. The moment this
reached the ground he slipped off and glided along the wall until he
came to a shaded corner beyond the shore end of the jetty. There he drew
back as far as possible into the shadow and waited.

“Are you there?” he heard the man in the upper room whisper huskily, and
saw him lean over, holding on to the rope.

There was no answer. His mate was at that moment half-way back from the
jetty, pushing the truck before him. A minute or so later, when he began
to loose the package, the man above noticed the movement of the rope,
and said:

“You there, Bob?”

“Ay! What’s up? In a hurry, ain’t you? You’ve got the easy job.”

“No call to be nasty! Have a care to stand from under when the loads are
coming down. These old blocks are sticking. There was a mighty bad jolt
just now. I don’t trust ’em.”

“All right; be there much more?”

“Half a dozen boxes or so.”

“I’m not sorry. The tide is making. I might as well wait a few minutes,
then I can pull the barge up a bit and save all this hiking with the
truck.”

Martin’s heart sank. If the man did as he suggested, Gundra would have
no opportunity of escaping. But next moment he was reassured.

“’Tain’t safe,” said the man above. “Barge might stick in the mud, and
tide take an hour or more to lift her. The sooner we get these things on
board the better.”

While the men were talking the rope had been drawn up, and another load
was fastened to it almost as soon as the man below had started to wheel
the previous one away.

The pulley creaked, the package descended. Martin watched anxiously,
wondering whether Gundra’s nerve would fail, whether the addition of his
weight to the rope would cause the man this time to look over. He saw
the slight form issue from the doorway and clutch the rope. Gundra was
much lighter than Martin; the extra weight made scarcely any difference
to the rate at which the rope descended. But Martin did not feel secure
until the load bumped on the ground, and the Indian boy, running as
lightly as a wild animal, reached his side.




                        CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH


                          MARTIN USES HIS WITS

Both the boys were panting a little, as much from excitement as from
exertion. For a few moments they remained, silent and still, in the
shadowy recess. Martin’s thoughts were busy with the new problem, how to
make good their escape. They were free, but they were not at large.

“Shall we wait until the loading is finished?” Martin asked himself.
“There are only a few more loads to come down, then the barge will put
off. No doubt these men will leave, too, and we shall be able to get
away at leisure.”

But as he pondered the matter he decided for immediate action. Convinced
that the goods now being removed were stolen property, he was bent on
saving it if that were possible, and the only obvious means of saving it
was to inform someone in authority who would send officers of the law to
arrest both goods and men. There was very little time. To win complete
freedom was a matter of urgency.

“Come along,” Martin whispered when the man was once more busy at the
jetty.

They crept along by the wall to the door of the warehouse. It was shut
and bolted. On each side of it was a window, but the shutters were up,
and heavily barred. It would be impossible even to attempt to force an
entrance without making a noise that would bring the man hot-foot upon
them.

Martin glanced this way and that. The quay on the landward side was
entirely enclosed. It seemed that there was no exit from it except
through the warehouse, and that was shut. They were trapped after all.

But there was the river. Could they escape by that? Was there, below the
jetty, a wherry or any kind of row-boat in addition to the barge that
was being loaded? Martin could not see one. Nor could they seize an
opportunity and dive into the river, for beneath the shore end of the
jetty there was nothing at low tide but liquid mud, probably deep enough
to engulf them.

All at once the man’s remark about pulling the barge up recurred to
Martin. An idea struck him that made his heart bound and his nerves
tingle. He whispered a few words to Gundra, and anyone who could have
observed them would have noticed how they braced themselves up.

The result of Martin’s inspiration showed itself when the man next left
the barge and wheeled the truck back along the jetty and across the
quay. As soon as his back was turned, they quitted their hiding-place
and, stooping low, made a dash for the jetty, the sound of their
movements being drowned by the noise of the rumbling wheels.

At the place where the jetty sprang from the quay they stopped, lowered
themselves over the side, and slipped on to one of the cross-beams that
supported the planking. There they crouched breathlessly. It was a
perilous position, for the timber was slippery with slime, and they had
to hug it closely to prevent their sliding off. There, clinging and
crouching, they remained until the man had again come and gone.

As soon as the man was at a safe distance, they clambered up to the
jetty, and crept along it on all fours until they came just above the
barge. This was now well afloat, but it was moored stem and stern to
posts on the jetty, as they saw by the light of a small oil-lamp
standing on a tub amidships. Boxes were piled fore and aft.

The two boys slid down on to the barge by the rope by which the man had
lowered the goods. Martin ran to the stern and tried to cast the aft
mooring rope loose; but the knot was firm and the rope hard, and he had
not succeeded when he heard the rumbling of the truck wheels along the
quay. There was not time to complete the job before the man arrived. The
urgent necessity at the moment was to hide and hope that he would not
see them.

Together they crouched down in the narrow space between the piled boxes
and the gunwale. With beating hearts they heard the rumbling draw
nearer; the heavy tramp of the man; his mutterings as he heaved his load
from the truck and lowered it to the deck of the barge. They held their
breath. Would the man follow it? No; he swung it almost over their
heads, and it settled with a bump a few feet short of them.

The moment the man retreated, Martin dashed back to the aft rope,
struggled with the knot until he managed to cast it off, hastened
forward and cast off the rope there likewise. The barge swung free.
Against its gunwale lay the long heavy sweeps with which it was
propelled. Martin attempted to lift one of these, but found it
impossible to do so without Gundra’s help.

The barge was already lurching shoreward on the tide. In a few moments,
unless its motion was checked, it would strike the mud, and then all
hope of escape was lost. Holding the sweep between them, the boys drove
it against the beams that supported the jetty, and tried to push off.

Unused to the handling of so clumsy an implement, the boys were unable
to prevent its end from glancing off the slimy timber, and it plunged
with a splash into the water. But they had not let it go. Levering it up
across the gunwale, they once more made the attempt, and by exerting all
possible pressure were able to force the barge a yard or two from the
jetty. Then they were almost undone by their own vigour, for the sweep
slipped again as the barge sheered away, and they fell forward, striking
against the gunwale, and dropping the sweep with a loud clatter.

They seized it just in time to save it from being carried overboard.
Meanwhile the barge had lost the impetus they had given it, and was
again drifting shoreward. It was clear that the noise they had made had
been heard by the men. There was a shout and hurried footsteps on the
quay, and Martin, looking up, could just see in the starlight the man at
the upper door leaning out and making wild movements with his arms,
evidently to urge on his mate below.

In a moment this man came in sight, running along the quay to the spot
where he expected the barge to strike if it escaped the mud. Martin saw
that the next few minutes would decide his fate.

“Catch hold!” he cried to the Indian boy. “Shove when I tell you.”

He pointed the sweep at the angle between two supporting beams, and with
Gundra’s help drove it into the notch, and brought all his weight and
strength to bear upon it. The barge sidled outward, slowly, too slowly.
Martin realised that if the man had run on to the jetty, he could have
jumped on board before the heavy vessel was out of range.

“Don’t let go,” Martin called, as the sweep dropped from its
resting-place into the water.

Keeping a tight grasp on the pole, the boys pulled it slowly through the
water. The barge swung about a little, and Martin saw with joy that the
gap between it and the quay was wider. It was now too late for the man
to attempt the leap. He stood on the quayside, shouting, cursing,
gesticulating to his companions, two men who were running to join him.
The second of them, lumbering along in the rear, Martin recognised as
Sebastian the fat cook.

Unwieldy though the sweep was, Martin was learning under the stress of
necessity how to manipulate it, his knowledge of oarsmanship assisting.
Laboriously he and Gundra dragged it through the water, and at every
stroke the barge forged a little farther from the quay.

The men there were in all the agitation of helpless rage. There was a
flash, a crack; one of them had fired a pistol.

“You fool!” shouted one of his companions. “Do you want to bring all
Deptford down upon us!”

The answer was inaudible on the barge. There the boys, panting and
sweating from their exertions in the hot night, did not relax their
efforts until the heavy vessel was clear of the jetty and had begun to
drift upstream on the tide. Then, as they paused, they heard the same
voice apparently giving an order, though the words could not be
distinguished. Dimly they saw the three figures run along the quay, then
they were lost to sight in the darkness. A few moments later there came
the sound of rusty hinges creaking; somewhere a gate was opening.

“What are they about now?” thought Martin; and he noticed for the first
time that Gundra’s eyes were wide with amazement and fright as they
gazed upon the ruddy glow of the Fire.




                         CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH


                          THE BOYS SWIM FOR IT

Martin felt that he had been uncommonly lucky. The utmost he had hoped
for was to escape with Gundra from the warehouse; it now seemed to his
sanguine spirit that he would save the stolen property as well. The
barge was slowly drifting upstream; there was no present sign of
pursuit; and if his luck held, before long he would get assistance from
friendly hands, and the evil schemes of Blackbeard, Slocum, and the rest
would be brought to nought.

But he had pitched his hopes too high. The heavy barge moved only at the
pace of the tide, and neither Martin nor the Indian had sufficient
muscular strength to work the cumbersome sweep for more than a few
minutes at a time. And they were soon aware that the pursuit had
started. In the light from the glowing sky they caught sight of three or
four men hurrying along the road that bordered the river. They were
outstripping the barge; it was probably their intention to get well
ahead, find a boat, and cut across the course of the fugitives.

They might be delayed by the fact that every serviceable boat had been
engaged for the conveyance of householders’ goods, but sooner or later
they would get some kind of craft, and then the end was inevitable.

The same dearth of boats operated against Martin. He hailed one or two
that passed, but the watermen would not so much as wait to hear his
explanations; they were reaping a golden harvest.

What could be done? The only chance seemed to be to run the barge across
the river to the north bank, as near as possible to the stairs where
Martin’s friends were wont to ply, and trust to finding one or other of
them at hand and ready to help.

The barge was drifting broadside with the stream, and it was only by
dint of great efforts and strenuous pulling at the sweep that the boys
were able to bring her head in the desired direction. They had hardly
begun to creep towards the north bank when they heard shouts ahead, and
saw a wherry putting out from the southern shore and making to cross
their bows.

The fiery aspect of the sky seemed to increase the heat of the summer
night, and Martin felt the sweat pouring off him in streams as he tugged
desperately at the sweep. He realised in a few moments the impossibility
of gaining the stairs before the wherry overtook him. To save the goods
was beyond hoping for; it would be as much as he could do to save
himself and Gundra from capture. They must abandon the barge and swim
for the shore, now perhaps some fifty yards distant. Could they do so
without being seen and followed? Martin had little doubt that the
pursuers would strain every nerve to capture them, and so ensure that
the sailing of the _Santa Maria_ should not be interfered with.

“We must swim for it,” he said, dropping the sweep. “Come with me, and
keep low.”

They crept behind the pile of cargo that had sheltered them when they
first boarded the barge, and slipped over the gunwale into the water on
the side remote from the pursuing wherry. Martin hoped to get at least
half way to the shore before he was seen. With Gundra he struck out
vigorously, but was soon conscious that his strength had already been
overtaxed, and he would be unable to keep up his stroke for more than a
minute or two.

It seemed that they had only left the barge a few seconds when they
heard the wherry bump into its side, and the men scrambling on board,
cursing as they searched for the fugitives. The search did not last
long; one of the pursuers caught sight of the swimmers, who might
perhaps have got away unseen but for the glare of the Fire.

“There they are!”

The shout caused Martin and Gundra to put all their remaining strength
into their strokes. The pursuers rushed for their boat, and it was
fortunate for the swimmers that it lay on the farther side of the barge.
By the time it had been pulled round the stern the boys had entered
shallow water, and were wading ashore in the mud.

And then the pursuers made a mistake. Had they continued on their course
upstream and rowed across to the nearest stairs, or to one of the quays
that broke the riverside, they could have landed well ahead of the boys
and met them while they were still floundering in the mud flats. But in
their haste and flurry, due no doubt to their wish to avoid drawing too
much attention from passing boats, they swung round against the current
and made toward the boys.

Ankle deep in slime, Martin and Gundra struggled on to gain the waste
land that stretched up from the river bank. The pursuing boat rapidly
approached them, and was only some twenty yards behind when its nose
stuck in the mud, throwing the rowers forward over their oars. Cursing
violently, the men strove to back water, but the boat was held fast, the
oars were useless, and it was only after precious time had been wasted
that the men decided to jump overboard and continue the pursuit on foot.

[Illustration]

In the clinging mud their weight told against them. By the time they had
dragged themselves on to the dry land the boys were already disappearing
into the hedge-lined lane that wound north-westward in the direction of
Spitalfields.

As they ran the chain by which Gundra had been fastened slipped from his
steel girdle, and its clanking gave a clue to their line of flight. They
heard the heavy feet of their pursuers thundering after them. Martin
tucked the chain up as well as he could, scarcely changing his pace, and
dragged Gundra along. In a minute or two they would reach houses, and
among them, shadowed from the glare of the Fire, they might hope to
elude further pursuit.

“No can run,” panted Gundra suddenly, placing his hand over his heart.

“A stitch,” thought Martin.

To lose time would be fatal. Without a moment’s hesitation he hauled the
Indian through a thin place in the hedge.

“Lie flat,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”

They lay beneath the hedge, trying to smother the sounds of their quick
breathing. The pursuers came up, passed; their footsteps receded.

“Better wait and see if they come back,” thought Martin. “We are both
dog-tired, and want a rest.”

Minutes passed. Martin listened for the sound of returning footsteps.
Presently he heard them, slow, dragging. The men went by on the other
side of the hedge; there was sullen rage in the tone of their voices.
Martin waited until he could hear them no longer; then he turned to the
Indian boy.

“We can go now,” he said. “The pain is gone, Gundra?”

Gundra was asleep.




                        CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST


                        GOLLOP MAKES A DISCOVERY

The little fellow screamed when Martin roused him, and started up in a
fright.

“Hush! It’s all right,” said Martin. “The men have gone. We must get
home and tell Gollop all about it. He will tell us what is best to be
done.”

He reflected that if, as he supposed, the barge held stolen goods that
were to form part of the cargo of the _Santa Maria_, it would take some
time to row that clumsy craft against the tide, and it might still be
possible to intervene before the vessel sailed. No doubt she would leave
her moorings as soon as the tide turned, and make what headway she could
against the east wind.

Martin had no idea what hour of the night it was, and he was surprised,
before they had gone far on the homeward way, to notice signs of dawn in
the sky. When they reached the house the sun was peering above the
horizon, its beams competing with the glow of the Fire.

Descending into the basement, Martin found the old Frenchman in anxious
consultation with the Gollops.

“Here’s Martin!” cried Lucy gleefully. “Oh, I _am_ glad you’ve come
home. We’ve been in such a state about you.”

“Not a wink of sleep for any of us all night,” said Susan. “Why, bless
me! Here’s the blackamoor too.”

Gundra had crept in timidly behind the elder boy.

“Now what have you to say for yourself?” the woman went on. “As if there
weren’t worries enough without——”

“Peace, woman!” cried the constable. “Don’t rate the lad. He’s fair
foundered, by the look of him. Sit you down, Martin, and tell us what
has kept you out all night.”

Martin was glad enough to rest, and Lucy had already taken possession of
Gundra, placed him in a corner of the settle, and was asking eager
questions about the strange girdle he wore about his body.

Without wasting words Martin related how he had followed Mr. Slocum’s
handcart, been trapped in the yard, and finally carried off to the
disused warehouse; how he had escaped with Gundra, and got away on the
barge.

“You’re a chip of the old block,” said Gollop delightedly; “and your
poor father would be proud of you.”

“That Slocum’s a wretch,” said Susan. “I always said so. Now, what are
you going to do, Gollop?”

“Do! What can I do?”

“There’s a man for you! Just as bad as the Lord Mayor. What can you do,
indeed! Why, just set off after that barge this very minute and stop it
before it’s too late.”

“Spoken like a woman,” responded Gollop. “You don’t understand the law,
Sue. Before that barge can be stopped there must be a warrant drawn up
proper, saying as how Richard Gollop, constable——”

“Fiddle-diddle!” Susan broke in scornfully. “Go out and get your
warrant, then, instead of talking about it.”

“I’d get never a magistrate to listen to me; they can’t think of nothing
but the Fire. But I’ll tell you what I will do: I’ll go down to the
river and see this vessel, _Santa_ something or other; there’s plenty of
time, for they’ve got to unload the barge. I’ll ask a question or two
along the riverside, and if what I hear bears out the lad’s tale——”

“There! Get along with you,” cried his wife. “It’s a mercy the world
isn’t all made of men.”

“What you can’t help, make the best of,” said Gollop, as he hurried
away.

Susan quickly prepared a meal for the famished boys. While she did so
she continued the conversation with Mounseer which Martin’s entrance had
interrupted. It appeared that the Frenchman was becoming anxious about
the safety of the house. On returning home about midnight the constable
had reported that there were signs of the Fire’s working back against
the wind. Already several houses eastward of Pudding Lane had been
consumed by the flames, and although the danger was as yet not imminent,
there was a risk that if the wind lulled or changed, the area of
destruction would extend to the Tower and the adjacent streets.

“Keep your mind easy, Mounseer,” said Susan with comfortable assurance.
“The neighbours will give us good warning if so be the Fire comes nigh,
and you’ll have time to collect your belongings; not that you’ve got
much to lose, so far as I know.”

Martin caught a strange look on the Frenchman’s face as he left the room
to return to his own apartment.

“When you’ve eat your fill, Martin,” said Susan, “you’d better go to
sleep. The blackamoor child has dropped off already, poor lamb!”

Martin lay down on his bed, but he found it impossible to sleep. His
brain whirled with thoughts of the Fire, and the barge, and the _Santa
Maria_; of Slocum, and Blackbeard, and the rest; and in spite of Susan’s
confidence the mere suggestion that the Fire might spread to their own
house and swallow it up filled him with alarm. He could not bear to
think that the Gollops might presently be among the thousands of
families that had lost their all.

Presently he could not endure inaction any longer. He sprang up.

“I am going out,” he said. “I must see for myself where the Fire has got
to. I won’t be very long.”

At the top of the stairs he banged into Gollop, red-faced and panting
through haste.

“Bless my eyes! Here’s a wonder!” gasped the man.

“What is it? Has the Fire got to us?” said Martin.

“The Fire! What’s the Fire to you? Martin, my lad, never did I think I’d
live to see this day.”

“Tell me—what is it?” asked Martin in wonder.

“Why, call me a Dutchman if that there Portugal ship ain’t the _Merry
Maid_, your father’s own vessel what never came home, to his ruin, poor
old captain of mine. The moment I set eyes on her I rubbed ’em, ’cos I
couldn’t believe it. But I knowed them lines; I knowed the pretty
creature, though they’d done something to alter the look of her. She’s
the captain’s ship as sure as I’m alive. And now you must come with me;
we’ll go to the Lord Mayor or somebody and get a warrant. She’s ready to
slip her moorings; we must arrest her; what’s your father’s is yours;
that’s the law, and soon they’ll know it!”

Waiting just long enough to tell his wife of his amazing discovery, the
constable hurried away with Martin in his quest of the Lord Mayor. But
that magnate was not to be found; nor were any of the sheriffs
discovered in the devastated city. Gollop, distracted, was beating his
wits to recall the name and address of some magistrate in a district
still untouched when Martin suddenly caught sight of Mr. Pemberton, the
customer of Slocum’s whom he had met on two occasions. The gentleman was
standing among a group of his friends, to whom he was pointing out the
site of his own ruined dwelling.

“He must be a magistrate,” thought Martin, remembering how Mr. Pemberton
had interfered when the crowd was molesting the Frenchman. “I’ll ask
him.”

He ran up to the group, pushed his way among them without much ceremony,
and said:

“Sir, may I speak to you?”

Mr. Pemberton stared at the eager boy, displeased at what appeared to be
an unmannerly intrusion. Then his brow cleared; he smiled and said:

“My friend the fighter, isn’t it? Well, what have you been fighting
about now?”

Martin coloured as he felt the eyes of the group focussed on him. But he
recovered his composure in a moment, and began to pour out his story. At
first the gentlemen listened with smiles of amusement or toleration, but
as he proceeded their interest was awakened, and Mr. Pemberton himself
watched him with keen attention.

“Stay,” he said at one point. “Your father was Reuben Leake?”

“Yes, sir, that was his name.”

“I have heard of him; a sound mariner. Go on.”

Martin continued his story, doing his best to make its complications
clear.

“Now let me understand,” said Mr. Pemberton when he had finished. “This
vessel, the _Santa Maria_, once the _Merry Maid_, is on the point of
sailing with a cargo which you suspect to consist of stolen goods, some
of them the property of the respected goldsmith Mr. Greatorex. You say
that Mr. Slocum, Mr. Greatorex’s man, is concerned in this crime with
the captain of the vessel, whom you call Blackbeard, and a man named
Seymour. The crew is mainly foreign; they have held an Indian boy as a
slave, and they kidnapped him when you had rescued him from them, and
shut you up with him in a warehouse at Deptford. Have I the story
right?”

“Yes, sir; all that is true.”

“Well, let me say—and my friends will agree with me—that you have
shown uncommon intelligence and courage and resource. Your running off
with the barge was an admirable device and deserved to succeed. And now
I understand that you wish to have a warrant for the arrest of the
vessel before she leaves the river. But you must have someone in
authority to execute the warrant, and in the present state of the
city——”

“There’s me, your worship,” broke in Gollop, who had stood at hand.
“Being a man of law in the shape of a constable——”

“Ah! Well, we must lose no time. But I have no paper, no pen—— Stay,
is that a half-burnt ledger I see among the ashes there?”

Martin leapt to the spot and picked up the book. Mr. Pemberton tore out
a page, hurriedly wrote a few lines upon it with a pencil, and handed it
to the constable.

“There, my man,” he said, “that is the best I can do for you. I cannot
swear that the phraseology is absolutely in form, but it will serve. I
don’t know what you will do if your Blackbeard shows fight. There is no
available force to put at your disposal; you must do the best you can. I
wish you success. I shall be glad to learn the issue of this strange
affair.”




                       CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND


                              THE PURSUIT

Martin sat on a thwart side by side with Hopton, listening intently to
the discussion that passed between Gollop and Boulter as they pulled the
boat steadily downstream.

“She got away with the first of the ebb,” said the constable. “What’s
the odds on our catching her?”

“That depends,” replied the waterman cautiously. “I reckon she’s got
three or four hours’ start, but she won’t go faster than the tide.”

“Not so fast, against this wind,” said Gollop.

“True, but it ain’t blowing so hard, and it’s my belief it’ll drop to a
calm afore night. Well then, she’ll hardly make Gravesend afore the turn
of tide, and as she can’t beat up against the wind in the narrow reaches
she’ll have to lay up when the ebb fails. For summat about three hours
we ought to gain a bit on her, but not so much as to overhaul her, and
then we’ll have the tide against us.”

“And be dead beat; I ain’t so handy with an oar as I was in my sea-going
days.”

“Well, I’ve a friend or two in Woolwich, and if so be they ain’t saving
the London folk’s goods I’ll get ’em to come aboard and take a spell
while we rest. But suppose we catch the Portugal ship, what then,
Gollop?”

“Why, I’ve got a warrant, ain’t I?”

“Much good that’ll be,” said Boulter scornfully. “They won’t care a fig
for warrants or anything but swords and firelocks. You ought to have
took a boatload of soldiers, that’s what I say.”

“Ay, it’s easy to say, but it couldn’t be done. Well, what you can’t
help, make the best of. I tell you this: that Portugal ship, leastways
the _Merry Maid_, shan’t get out of the river if I can help it.”

Martin was half-inclined to regard the pursuit as a wild-goose chase,
and Hopton had nothing to say to encourage him; but uncertainty gave a
spice to the adventure, and they felt a pleasant thrill of anticipation.

By the time they reached Woolwich the tide had turned, and Boulter
thought it well to pull to the shore, partly for rest and food, partly
to seek out his friends, enquire of them whether they had noticed the
Portugal ship, and try to enlist their help. Luckily he came upon two
watermen whom he knew well, and who were disengaged. From them he learnt
that the vessel had passed about three hours before; she had tow boats
out, towing her, and it was a matter of speculation on the riverside why
her crew were putting themselves to so much exertion in such hot
weather.

Gollop’s face fell when he heard this news. It was clear that Blackbeard
expected pursuit, and was making all possible speed to evade it.
Boulter’s friends agreed to join the expedition, under promise of a good
reward if it proved successful, and the boat set off again after half an
hour’s delay, the fresh oarsmen making good progress even against the
tide. When all four men were pulling its pace was noticeably rapid, and
at Erith, six miles beyond Woolwich, Gollop was delighted to learn on
enquiry from an upgoing barge that the _Merry Maid_ was now little more
than two hours ahead.

Hour after hour the rowers plied their oars, taking turns to rest in
couples. Martin and the old Frenchman, who had been up all night, fell
asleep on their seats, and when they awoke it was five o’clock in the
afternoon, and the boat was approaching Gravesend. Here Gollop decided
to go ashore, for as the day wore on he had become less confident, and
recognised that if Blackbeard and his crew resisted the arrest of the
ship the pursuers, hopelessly outnumbered, would not be able to enforce
it unless they could engage a party adequately armed.

Both he and Boulter had acquaintances among the mariners of Gravesend,
but some of these were absent from their usual haunts, having been drawn
to London by the prospect of making money out of the Fire. Those who
remained showed themselves distrustful and suspicious; they were not to
be tempted to lend their services in a cause that might fail; and
Gollop, angry and troubled, made his way to the office of the Customs
officer of the port, and sought his aid as a brother man of the law. The
officer appeared to resent this claim of relationship, and treated the
constable very off-handedly.

“Let me see this warrant you talk of,” he said, and when Gollop produced
the scrap of paper, creased, oddly-shaped, its edges frayed and
scorched, he sniffed. “I cannot act on this,” he said. “It is not drawn
up in proper form. The _Santa Maria_ has cleared; she is bound for
Lisbon, the port of an ally; she is beyond my jurisdiction.”

At this Gollop lost his temper.

“You and your long words!” he said. “That there vessel ain’t a Portugal
ship; she’s English from stem to stern; don’t I know? You’re neglecting
of your duty, master officer, and I’ll take good care that them above
you hear about it and you’ll get a rough hauling, my fine fellow.”

“Get out of this,” cried the officer, losing his temper in turn. “You
may be a constable; I don’t know; but you’ll find your legs in the
stocks if you air your insolence on an officer of His Majesty’s
Customs.”

“Come away, Dick,” said Boulter soothingly. “We ain’t done yet. And we
can’t afford to lose any more time. If the craft weathers Hope Point
she’ll have a clear run out and give us the slip altogether. Come on,
man.”

Within a few minutes the boat was again under way. It was heavy work
pulling her down Gravesend Reach, and heavier still when, in Lower Hope
Reach, she came full in the teeth of the wind. An exclamation from
Martin caused Gollop to fling a hasty look over his shoulder. Strung out
along the lee shore three ships lay at anchor, evidently waiting for the
tide.

“Easy all!” cried Gollop, shipping his oar. A look of triumph gleamed in
his eyes. “The second o’ them vessels—she’s the _Merry Maid_, bless her
heart!”

“Are you sure?” said Boulter. “She’s three-quarters of a mile away.”

“Sure! Am I sure I’ve a nose on my face? That there’s my dear old
captain’s craft, one in a thousand. She’s safe for a few hours. We’ll go
ashore and wet our whistles, my mates; this is a chance we’ve got to
make the best of.”

They pulled in towards the shore, but lay a few yards off the mud flats
to talk over the next step before they landed.

“We can’t fight ’em, that’s certain,” said Boulter, “being only seven
all told, two of us just boys, and one a aged furriner.”

Mounseer smiled, and fingered his rapier.

“True for you, mate,” said Gollop. “Well, if you ain’t strong enough to
fight, what do you do?”

“Speaking for myself, I plays a trick.”

“Spoke like a wise man. Now what trick could you play?”

“That depends,” said Boulter, scratching his head. “What about boring a
hole in her hull?”

“Seeing as none of us is a sword-fish, that can’t be done without ’tis
noticed. What about giving ’em a scare? Them furriners are easy
frightened.”

“You couldn’t scare ’em into quitting the vessel. But you talk of
furriners. Now I come to think of it, I’ve knowed furren gentlemen put
aboard outgoing vessels in the river—gentlemen as want to get away
secret, and pay well for it. If so be——”

He paused and looked at the Frenchman.

“If so be as our furren gentleman could go aboard as a passenger, maybe
the rest of us could get aboard too, eh?”

“Well, what then?”

“Why, that’s the trick, d’you see? What I say is——”

“But perhaps Mr. Seymour’s aboard, and he knows Mounseer,” said Martin.

“So much the better,” cried Gollop, slapping his thigh. “But what does
Mounseer say?”

“I do anything what please you,” said the Frenchman quietly.

Five minutes’ close discussion ensued. Then the boat’s head was turned
upstream, and the little party, hopeful and elated, was speeding back to
Gravesend.




                        CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD


                            AT GRIPS AT LAST

In Gravesend they spent a busy hour. While Boulter bought a small
sea-chest at a marine store, Gollop purchased cutlasses for the watermen
and a stout staff for Martin: Hopton fortunately had brought his club. A
visit to a slop shop provided sea-jackets and hats for the two boys, and
so disguised they might have been taken for cabin boys ashore. The
cutlasses, wrapped in sacking, were laid in the chest.

“We’d better wait for the dusk,” said Gollop. “How about the tide,
Boulter?”

“’Twill turn at dusk or thereabouts,” replied the waterman. “But the
wind’s dropping, so we mustn’t bide too long or the barque will slip
us.”

“True; but we’ll have time to fill our holds, which I mean to say our
stomachs. An empty man’s only half a man, and every one of us will have
to make two to-night, or I’m a Dutchman.”

Repairing to the Three Tuns inn, the little party made a good meal; then
they returned to the wherry and set off on their adventure. The tide was
still running up, but the force of the wind had sensibly diminished, and
they made good progress toward their destination.

The sun was setting behind them, and a slight haze crept over the river.
Presently the _Santa Maria_ hove in sight.

“All’s quiet on deck,” said Gollop, looking eagerly ahead. “They feel
pretty snug: so much the better.”

The approach of the wherry was apparently not noticed on board. It had
drawn under the vessel’s quarter before Boulter raised a hail.

“_Santa Maria_ ahoy!” he called.

A dark face showed itself above the gunwale.

“Captain aboard?” said Boulter.

The man nodded.

“I want a word with him,” the waterman continued.

There was no answer: the man simply stared.

“Speakee capitano,” said Boulter, as if obligingly suiting his language
to the comprehension of a foreigner.

In a few halting words of broken English the man declared that the
captain was at supper and must not be disturbed.

“What you want?” he concluded.

“Never you mind,” said Boulter. “Bring capitano: maybe he’ll understand
plain English.”

After some further colloquy the man was prevailed upon to seek the
captain, and Martin felt a cold trickle along his spine when he saw in
the fading light the face of Blackbeard looking down from the poop.
Instinctively he shrank down on his seat.

“What you want?” demanded the captain, with his foreign accent.

“A gentleman wishes a passage in your vessel, captain,” said Boulter,
persuasively. “He must get aboard at once: a foreign gentleman, you
understand: can pay well: fifty pounds, say.”

“It is impossible,” said Blackbeard bluntly. “There is not cabin room
for passenger. No; impossible.”

Another face was peering over his shoulder, and Martin effaced himself
more thoroughly as he recognised Slocum. The goldsmith threw a searching
glance over the boat. Martin saw him start, pluck Blackbeard by the
sleeve, and draw him out of sight.

“Did he see me?” thought Martin, quaking a little.

In a minute he was reassured. Blackbeard returned alone, and Martin
noticed that his eyes at once sought Mounseer, who was sitting on a
thwart next to Gollop.

“I have considered,” he said. “Perhaps for one. You said one?”

“Yes: one gentleman: a Frenchman,” said Boulter. “London is not safe for
the French. He was beset in the street.”

“Very well; he shall come. And quick: soon will the tide turn.”

He called up a seaman, and bade him lower a rope-ladder from the waist.
Mounseer got up, and staggered.

“He is old and weak,” said Boulter. “Some of you help him, there.”

According to the plan previously arranged, Martin and Gollop each took
one of the Frenchman’s arms and led him to the ladder. Martin climbed
nimbly to the deck, then turned to assist Mounseer, who ascended slowly,
Gollop following. To all appearances the Frenchman was feeble,
exhausted; he tottered and swayed between the others when all three were
on board. Meanwhile Boulter’s two watermen friends were proceeding to
carry up the sea-chest, which might be supposed to contain the
passenger’s baggage.

“Come with me,” said Blackbeard. “We will make bargain.”

He led the way towards the round-house, a sort of cabin on the upper
deck. Martin and Gollop led Mounseer between them. Slocum had
disappeared; the only persons visible were Blackbeard, the dark-faced
seaman, and some members of the crew who were lying outstretched on the
planks, resting, no doubt, after their exertions in towing the vessel.

Martin looked curiously about the round-house as he entered. It
contained a well-spread table, two chairs and two berths; the walls were
lined with racks containing arms of all kinds: firelocks, picks, swords,
pistols.

At a gesture from Blackbeard the Frenchman sank into one of the chairs.

“Now you go,” the captain commanded, turning to Martin and Gollop. “I
will finish the bargain with this gentleman.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Gollop quietly, “but afore I go it is
in a manner of speaking——”

“What you mean?” said Blackbeard, truculently. “I say you go: there is
no more for you: you have done; the business is with this gentleman.”

“So it is, to be sure,” returned Gollop unperturbed. “Leastways a part
of it. But afore I go, it is in a manner of speaking my duty as an
officer of the law to show you a dokyment——”

He had drawn from his pocket the warrant signed by Mr. Pemberton and was
proceeding to unfold it. But something in his manner had aroused
suspicion in the captain, who made a quick sidelong movement and
snatched at a pistol in the nearest rack.

Then the Frenchman, who had appeared so weak and faint, showed a
marvellous alacrity for a man of his years and impotence. He sprang up
from his chair, whipped out his rapier from under his cloak, and had its
point within an inch of Blackbeard’s throat while his hand was still
closing over the pistol butt.

For a second or two there was silence as the men faced each other.
Martin, quivering with excitement, took in the details of the scene:
Gollop flourishing the paper in his hand; Blackbeard, his hand
outstretched, his nostrils dilating, his eyes glaring; Mounseer cool,
smiling, watching the other as a cat watches a mouse.

Then the silence was broken. The Frenchman, wearing his inscrutable
smile, said gently, in a tone not above the conversational pitch:

“Monsieur recognises—is it not so?—that he must render himself?”

Blackbeard made no answer in words, but his eyes narrowed, his fingers
tightened on the pistol, and he made an almost imperceptible movement.
The Frenchman read the intention in his eyes. The smile disappeared,
giving place to a look of grim resolution. One twist of the wrist, and
the rapier point, an instant before at the man’s throat, flickered like
a flash of lightning and pricked him in the forearm. He winced; the
pistol fell clattering to the floor; and he let out a cry, a loud wild
cry that must have rung through the ship from stem to stern: a rallying
cry to his crew.

Next instant a door at the farther end of the round-house, which had
stood ajar, was flung open, and a water-bottle hurtled across the room.
It missed the Frenchman’s head by an inch, and crashed against the wall.
Through the door rushed two men, one behind the other. In the foremost
Martin recognised Mr. Seymour, the tenant of the upper floor whose
dealings with Blackbeard had first awakened his suspicions. It was he
who had thrown the bottle; the second man was for the moment hidden from
view behind him.

Between the table and the wall on either side there was only a narrow
gangway, partly obstructed by the chairs. As he dashed forward, Seymour
snatched at a cutlass hanging above the rack of arms. He grasped it, but
by the blade, for the hilt was higher than his head. To make effective
play with it he must needs lift it from its nail and reverse it: even
then the narrow gangway would allow him no room to swing it, nor the low
roof space in which to bring it above his head: he could only give
point.

But before he could reverse the weapon and grasp the hilt Gollop had
found himself. Dropping his warrant, he flung himself forward with a
leonine roar. Recalling the fight afterwards Martin wondered how the
burly constable had managed to squeeze himself between the table and the
wall to meet the attack. The chair went clattering along the floor; a
blow from Gollop’s sledge-hammer fist, with sixteen stone of brawn
behind it, caught Seymour clean between the eyes and sent him hurtling
over the broken chair upon the man behind. He dropped; his companion
staggered, recovered himself, and, shouting a furious curse, sprang
forward cutlass in hand.

Protected in some degree by the huddled form of Seymour, he made a
desperate lunge at Gollop, who had been carried forward by his own
momentum, and could now neither advance nor retreat. At this critical
moment Martin seized the second chair, and, gathering his strength,
hurled it at Slocum. It took him at the level of his belt and doubled
him up.

Then from without came a medley of shouts and the rustling thud of bare
feet upon the boards.




                       CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH


                             GOLLOP AT BAY

The light of battle gleamed in Gollop’s eyes. He was no longer the
constable, whose weapons were a staff and a rattle, but the boatswain of
old, who had borne his part in many a fight with pirates in the days
when he sailed the far seas with Captain Leake.

“I carries more flesh now than I did then,” he said afterwards, when
telling the story to his cronies. “That’s what comes of marrying a good
wife what looks after your vittles. Still, what you can’t help, make the
best of; that’s what I always say.”

Bulky though he was, at this critical moment he showed himself
astonishingly agile. He snatched two cutlasses from the stand of arms,
and thrust one into Martin’s hand.

“Better than a stick, my lad,” he said. “Stand you guard over they two
rascals”—he indicated Slocum and Seymour, who were sitting more or less
disabled on the floor. “If they stir, touch ’em with the point.”

Then, rather breathlessly, he turned to meet the rush at the door.

Meanwhile the Frenchman was keeping an eye on Blackbeard. Disarmed and
injured, the captain of the _Santa Maria_ stood between the table and
the wall, his dark face distorted with fury. Mounseer could not attack
him again while he was unarmed, nor was there space or time for the duel
that would have rejoiced the Frenchman’s heart. But he knew that if he
took his eye off him for a moment he might expect a rush, and all that
he could do was to shift his ground slightly so that he might be able to
lend aid to Gollop if the crew made a determined assault through the
door.

“You will have the goodness to retire yourself one step or two,” he said
to Blackbeard, his tone icily polite. To give himself room it was
necessary that the captain should move backward into the round-house.

Blackbeard muttered a curse under his breath, but refused to budge.

“Eh bien, voilà!” said the Frenchman, with a sudden deft movement
pricking him with the point of his rapier.

The captain winced, shrieked out an oath, but made no more ado about
obeying orders. Then Mounseer half turned, and stood so that he could
either check Blackbeard if he showed fight, or move to Gollop’s help, as
the occasion might demand.

Cutlass in hand, Martin stood over his prisoners, who had shown no sign
of activity themselves, but were looking eagerly, hopefully, towards the
door. Martin found it difficult to prevent his attention from being
distracted by the fight that was now raging there. The crew of the
vessel, headed by the officer whom Martin had seen once before, had
surged in a yelling crowd towards the round-house, catching up as they
ran any object that would serve as a weapon. Some had marline-spikes,
one brandished a short spar, another a hanger; several had drawn
evil-looking knives, and fat Sebastian wielded a meat chopper.

But there was no order or discipline among them. Shouting,
gesticulating, they got in one another’s way in their struggle to reach
the door, where Gollop coolly awaited their onset. His broad form
blocked up the narrow entrance; the foreigners could attack only one at
a time; and as they came on, one by one, each was put out of action by a
sudden thrust or cut or lunge of the cutlass wielded by a master hand.

Martin glowed with admiration as he watched the swift movements of the
big man. Planted firmly on his feet, his body scarcely swayed; but his
sword-arm swept from side to side, and the furious yells of his
opponents bespoke their sense of failure. Baffled, they fell back; they
collected in a group to devise some plan whereby they might overcome
this doughty defender of the door.

Suddenly there was a shout behind them.

“Ahoy! ahoy! Firk ’em! At ’em, my hearties!”

The startled group turned; there were a few moments of wild confusion.
Martin, looking under Gollop’s arm, saw a welter of men, some bowled
over like ninepins, others crawling away on hands and knees. The
watermen, with George Hopton, taking their cue from the noises on deck,
had swarmed up from the wherry and swept upon the foreigners from the
rear. They burst through, irresistible; the crew scattered to right and
left; and then Gollop issued forth from the doorway and joined his
friends with a roar of welcome.

“Round ’em up! Round ’em up!” he cried, and striding ahead of his little
party he chased the crew around the deck, across the waist, down the
ladders, into every corner where they sought refuge. Bereft of their
leaders they had no heart to fight. Within a very few minutes the
foreigners had surrendered, and were herded into the forecastle.

A few minutes more, and the prisoners in the round-house were sitting in
a disconsolate line against the wall, their hands and feet securely
tied.

“A very pretty job,” said Gollop, looking approvingly at the watermen’s
work. “I reckon they knots be firm enough, Mounseer; still, ’tis as well
to make sure; so maybe you’ll stand over ’em with that steel of yours
while we go and see what’s in them brass-bound boxes.”

The Frenchman smiled, and held his rapier at the salute.




                        CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH


                          MARTIN TO THE RESCUE

Gollop was in a quandary.

He had got possession of the _Santa Maria_, which would henceforth be
called by her old name, the _Merry Maid_: what was he to do with her?
Night had fallen; the tide was running out again to the sea; it seemed
necessary to wait for morning light and the turn of the tide before the
vessel could be floated back to London. But the constable had left his
duty without leave from his commanding officer, and though he had Mr.
Pemberton’s warrant to produce in self-justification, he felt that if a
strict judgment were passed upon his action, he was in danger of losing
his livelihood.

“Seems to me I’d better leave you in command, lad,” he said to Martin,
“the ship being yours, and row back to the city.”

“But you are tired,” replied Martin; “it would be a terribly hard pull
against the tide, and we can’t spare anyone to go with you; we’re very
few to hold the ship if the crew break out of the forecastle.”

“Besides, there’s them boxes,” Boulter put in. The boxes had been opened
and examined: they were full of plate and jewellery. “I reckon they’re
worth a good few thousands of pounds, and Mr. Greatorex is so much
beholden to you that he’ll see you don’t lose by the night’s work.”

“Maybe; gratitude ain’t a partickler common virtue. Howsomever, what you
can’t help, make the best of. I’ll bide here till morning, and then
we’ll see. Martin, my lad, you’re dead beat; you’ve got old eyes; turn
in, you and your friend, and sleep sound till I wake you.”

Martin was glad enough to stretch himself on the deck against the
bulwark; his recent experiences had worn him out.

“Your Gollop’s a Trojan,” said Hopton as he threw himself beside him. “I
say, I’ll go with you to Tyburn to see Slocum hanged.”

“I suppose he _will_ be hanged?” said Martin sleepily.

“Certain sure. It will be a great show. I expect he’ll make a fine
speech on the gallows.”

But Martin was already asleep.

When he awoke in the early morning he found that Gollop, in consultation
with the watermen, had planned out his course of action. The vessel
would be left in charge of the Customs officers, who would put a crew on
board, and lodge the criminals, Slocum, Blackbeard, and Seymour, in
jail; then the boarding party would return to the City, Gollop would
report to his captain, and a posse of constables would no doubt be
dispatched to convey the criminals to London for trial.

About half-past five Boulter’s wherry set off on its return journey to
London. The party were well satisfied with the result of their
expedition, but the pleasure of some of them was alloyed with anxiety.
During the night the wind had fallen away; the air was still; and
Gollop, equally with the Frenchman, was filled with foreboding as to the
progress the Fire might have made during the twelve hours of his
absence. Already, before his departure, the flames had worked back
against the wind in the direction of the Tower, and now that there was
not even the wind to check them, he was on tenterhooks lest they might
have gained his house.

Mounseer, so calm and self-possessed during the scene in the round-house
of the _Merry Maid_, was now a prey to nervous agitation, which
increased minute by minute as the wherry neared its destination. He said
nothing, but the twitching of his eyelids and the restless movements of
his hands were clear signs of his perturbation of spirit. Martin
wondered, for, like Susan Gollop, he had seen nothing of value in the
old gentleman’s apartment, and such possessions as he had could be
removed in a few minutes if the house were attacked by the Fire.

The watermen pulled in to the steps where Martin had first become
suspicious of Slocum. There the party separated: Gollop to seek his
captain, Hopton to return home, the watermen to resume their vocation;
Martin and the Frenchman to regain their dwelling-house.

“If so be the house has caught, lad,” said Gollop at parting, “I trust
to you to look after my Sue and the little one. I’ll come home the very
first minute I can.”

Martin’s misgivings increased as he hurried with Mounseer through the
streets.

“I’m sure that’s Clothworkers Hall in Mincing Lane,” he said, noticing a
huge body of yellow flame rising high into the air some distance to the
left.

He stopped a man who was hurrying past, and asked him how far the Fire
had got.

“How far? Where have you been, then?” was the reply. “Paul’s Church is
in ashes; so’s Fleet Street and——”

“I mean on this side.”

“Why, the Custom House by the river has gone, so’s a part of Tower
Street, and Mincing Lane, and the parsonage of Barking Church——”

“Juste ciel!” cried the Frenchman. “Our house is near of that. Haste!
haste!”

His mental distress, following on the fatigues of the night, rendered
the old gentleman’s steps unsteady, and he clung to Martin’s arm for
support. They hurried on, their alarm growing from moment to moment.
Every now and then they heard a terrific explosion, and saw immense
columns of smoke, dust, and fragments of wood spring into the air.

“What’s that?” asked Martin of a passer-by.

“Blowing up houses in Seething Lane,” the man replied.

“Mon Dieu! How close!” muttered the Frenchman. “For me it is ruin,
ruin!”

At last they turned the corner from which their house could be seen. One
glance was enough. Flames were bursting from the roof. It appeared that
the house had caught fire at the top from floating sparks. People were
running hither and thither in the street, carrying away their goods from
the neighbouring houses. In the roadway before the house was a little
group of three—Susan Gollop, Lucy, and the Indian boy, standing guard
over the household gear piled in the roadway.

Susan’s set face relaxed as she saw Martin running towards her.

“Where’s Gollop? Where’s my man?” she cried.

“He’s quite safe; he’ll be here soon,” Martin replied. “Have you got
everything out?”

“Everything but the copper. We couldn’t lift that. Come back, Mounseer;
we’ve got your things too.”

The Frenchman had withdrawn his arm from Martin’s and was hurrying into
the open doorway of the house. He paid no attention to Susan’s cry, but
disappeared.

“Well I declare!’ cried Susan. “Did you ever know such a foolish old
gentleman! Because he’s French, I suppose. Me and the blackamoor brought
out all his bits of things with our own hands: here they are. But I
suppose he wants to make sure we’ve got ’em all.”

“I’ll go and bring him back,” said Martin.

“No, no; bide here. He’ll see the room’s empty and come back himself in
a twink. There’s no call for you to go into the smother.”

Martin allowed himself to be restrained. A knot of spectators had
gathered, and stared up at the burning house. The flames were spreading
from the roof downwards. Smoke was pouring out of the windows. Susan
watched grimly; Lucy, her eyes wide with awe, clung convulsively to
Gundra, who seemed the least concerned of all.

Minute after minute passed. There was no sign of the Frenchman. The
window of his room was closed, but smoke was trickling out at the edges
of the casement.

“Oh! where is my dear Mounseer?” cried Lucy, tearfully.

“Drat the man!” said Susan. “What in the world he’s doing I don’t know.
He must have a bee in his bonnet. Here now—Martin—come back! Come
back, I say!”

But Martin, unable to bear the suspense any longer, had broken away and
dashed into the burning house to find his old friend.




                        CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH


                            MARTIN’S ORDEAL

Martin was only partly conscious of what he passed through during the
next minute, and not at all aware of the risks he ran.

The old timber house had ignited from the top; the roof had burnt
through, and blazing fragments, falling on to the landings below, had
set fire to the walls and the floors. Already the flames were eating
away the stairs, and Martin, groping his way up through the smoke and by
the aid of the banisters, was awakened to realities by a sudden sharp
stinging pain as his hand touched a place that was on fire.

“Mounseer! Mounseer!” he called as he bounded up.

There was no answer.

He reached the landing at the top of the first flight. Through the
Frenchman’s open doorway, a little way to the right, thick grey smoke
was pouring. Moment by moment red-hot splinters crashed down upon the
landing, and from above came the roar and crackle of the devouring
flames.

“Mounseer!” Martin shouted; then caught his breath and coughed as the
acrid smoke filled his throat.

His smarting eyes streamed with water. Half blinded, he pressed his lips
firmly together and dashed across the landing into the open doorway. The
room was thick with smoke: for a moment Martin was compelled to close
his eyes; when he opened them again he saw flames bursting through the
ceiling. Part of a blazing rafter fell at his feet, and he staggered
back as innumerable sparks flew up in his face.

“Mounseer! Mounseer!” he spluttered.

There was no sound but the ever-growing roar of the flames.

Guessing from the denseness of the smoke that the windows were closed,
unable to see anything clearly, Martin in desperation caught up a small
stool which he had touched with his feet and hurled it in the direction
of the window overlooking the waste ground at the back. There was a
crash of breaking glass; the smoke began to pour out through the
shattered pane, and taking advantage of the immediate lightening of the
air Martin started to grope round the room in search of the Frenchman.

He stumbled against the table, knocked his shins against the edge of the
bed, felt across it with his hands: there was no sign of Mounseer.
Finding that he could breathe more freely near the floor he dropped on
his hands and knees and began to crawl, wincing every now and then as he
touched a fragment of burning wood.

He made for the cupboard in the corner, thinking that Mounseer might
have been overpowered by the smoke as he stood to save some of his few
possessions there. But there was no sign of him in the corner. He worked
back, and had almost completed the tour of the room when, behind the
door, he stumbled upon something hard. It was the sole of a shoe. In
another moment he knew that the body of the Frenchman was stretched
along the floor close against the wall.

Raising himself, he seized Mounseer’s feet and tried to drag him out
upon the landing. But suddenly his strength failed: overcome by the
smoke he fell gasping across the prostrate body, and lay for a few
moments in a state of collapse.

Collecting himself with a great effort, he struggled to his feet and
managed to pull the inert form as far as the doorway before once more
faintness overtook him, and again he fell.

He tried to shout for help, but only a feeble croak issued from his
parched lips. A terrible fear assailed him: if a few minutes’ immersion
in the smoke could rob him of his strength, how must it be with the
Frenchman, who had been so much longer exposed? Was he too late? Was the
old gentleman past help?

The thought nerved him to one more effort. He rose, and pulled with all
his might at the Frenchman’s legs. Staggering, he got him through the
doorway on to the landing. Here there was a little more air, but
Martin’s head swam; sick and dizzy he reeled, fell, and struck his head
against the banisters. At the moment of his losing consciousness there
was a noise in his ears, above the roar of the flames—a noise as of
people shouting and running.

When he came to himself he was lying in the roadway. His head and chest
were wet. His dazed, aching eyes saw Susan Gollop bending over him; in
the background were other figures, among which he by and by recognised
that of George Hopton.

“Mounseer!” he murmured.

“Mounseer is safe, my lamb,” said Susan, her tone unusually soft. “Take
a drink: you’ll soon be all right again.”

He drank greedily from the cup she offered. A well-dressed elderly
gentleman came forward.

“He is recovering, mistress?” he said.

“Ay, sir, thank God!” replied Susan. “But I wish Gollop would come. I
don’t know what in the world we are to do now. The old house is done
for: we’ve got our little bits of furniture here, but nowhere to go.”

“Don’t distress yourself, my good woman,” said the gentleman. “I will
make it my charge to look after you all until something can be arranged.
I would take you to my own house were it not so far away; that is
impossible; but I will at once ride off to a farm I know at Islington,
where I make no doubt I can arrange for your housing.”

He crossed the road to where a boy was holding a horse, mounted, and
rode away.

“Who is that?” Martin murmured. George Hopton came and stood by him.

“Mr. Greatorex, to be sure,” answered Susan, “and a real kind gentleman.
Brave too; ay, a man of bravery if ever there was one, and quick of his
mind. He came riding up with this lad perched behind him, and the way he
got off that horse—well, ’twas a wonderful spring for a man of his
years. ‘Where’s Martin Leake?’ he sings out. ‘In the house,’ says I,
‘a-saving of the old gentleman on the first floor.’ ‘Isn’t there a _man_
that could have done that?’ says he, scornful-like, looking round on the
crowd. And I must own they was an idle lot, all eyes and no sense. Well,
he didn’t wait a moment, but dashed into the house—though I’ll own this
lad was in front of him. My heart was in my mouth when I saw ’em vanish
into that furnace and heard ’em shouting for you——”

“Mounseer! what of Mounseer?” asked Martin again, as remembrance came to
his dazed mind.

“Safe and sound, bless you,” replied Susan; “that is, he will be, when
he’s come to proper. He’s over yonder, with a doctor looking after him.
It seemed an age before Mr. Greatorex came out again, though I suppose
’twas no more than a minute or two. He had you in his arms, and my heart
went pit-a-pat that dreadful when I saw your pale face and your poor
burnt hands. And behind him was this lad with Mounseer on his back: a
strong lad, and a good lad too. And you hadn’t been out of the house two
ticks when the floors fell in with a terrible crash, and sparks flying
all across the street. ’Twas a merciful Providence that sent Mr.
Greatorex in the very nick of time to save you from being burnt alive.”

“But I don’t understand—Mr. Greatorex—how—why did he want me?”

“I can tell you that,” said Hopton. “I went up to the shop to see if
there was anything left of it. My word! the ground did scorch my feet.
Of course it’s nothing but a black ruin: all Cheapside is burnt. I was
just coming away when Mr. Greatorex rode up. He’d come up from the
country; only think: the smoke and bits of black paper and stuff have
been carried forty or fifty miles away. He asked me about Slocum, and
whether the goods had been saved in time; and then I told him all I
knew, and said that the goods were safe on board the ship, and ’twas all
owing to you. ‘Take me at once to that Martin Leake,’ says he, and he
was in such a hurry that he made me get up on the saddle behind him:
first time in my life I’ve ever been on a horse, and don’t I ache with
the jolting! Then it happened as Mrs. Gollop said: we found you and the
old Frenchman in a heap on the landing, and we weren’t long bringing you
out, I can tell you.”

“And such foolishness of Mounseer!” said Susan. “Nearly lost his life,
and yours too, and what for? Just for a bit of a box.”

“A brass-bound box?” said Martin.

“No, there’s no brass about it, so far as I could see, though he kept it
so tight in his arms that no one could see it proper. He’d quite lost
his senses when the lad brought him out, but d’you think he’d let go of
that box? Not for ever so. He clung to it as if it was the most vallyble
thing in the whole world—just a bit of a box, leather I fancy, but so
old and worn that—there, you never can tell what queer things some
folks take a fancy to.”

“But what’s in the box?”

“Ah, who’s to say? He’s got it in his arms still, and there it’ll be
until he’s rightly come to himself. Are you feeling better now, my
dear?”

“Yes, though I’m rather chokey, and my hands smart.”

“To be sure they do, and I’ve no oil to put on ’em. But I’ll get some
soon, and if Mr. Greatorex is a man of his word—and I don’t say he
isn’t—we’ll soon have you in a comfortable bed in a farm-house, and
milk and cream, and—why, it’ll be a holiday in the country, what I’ve
wanted for years. You’ll like that, won’t you, Lucy?” she asked, as the
child ran up.

“Mounseer’s opened his eyes,” said Lucy. “I’m so glad. He smiled at me.
And then he asked for Martin. And then he said some funny words _I_
couldn’t understand. And then he told me to come and say ‘Thank you’ a
thousand times to Martin. That was just his fun, of course, for I
couldn’t say it so many times as that, could I?”

“That’s just his foreign way, my dear,” said Susan. “Once is enough with
English people. Run back and tell him that Martin is all right, and
we’re all going to a farm in the country. I do wish Gollop would come
home.”




                       CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH


                               ALL’S WELL

Not many hours later, in one of the comfortable rooms of a large
farm-house near the village of Islington, Dick Gollop and his wife,
Martin and Lucy and Gundra, and Mounseer—whose name was Monsieur Raoul
Marie de Caudebec—had just finished the best meal they had had for many
a day.

Mr. Greatorex—proving himself to be a man of his word—had sent them
from the City in a hired coach, and arranged that their furniture should
follow in a wagon. He himself had promised to come and see them as soon
as he had had an interview with one of the sheriffs.

The burns of Martin and the Frenchman had been treated with oil and
flour, and it was Susan Gollop’s opinion that, except for a scar or two,
they would show no permanent marks of their recent terrible experience.

“And I daresay Martin won’t show none at all,” she said. “He’s young,
and young skin has time to change itself over and over again. And as to
Mounseer—well, he’s old, and I don’t suppose he’ll mind if he do bear a
blemish or two.”

“That is philosophy, madam,” said the Frenchman with a smile.

“Your box is marked worse than you,” Susan went on, eyeing with simple
curiosity the small leather casket that lay on the table at Mounseer’s
right hand. “You can’t make a new thing of a bit of old leather,
specially when it’s had a thorough good scorching.”

“That is true, madam.” Mounseer laid his hand on the casket. “It is old,
older than I am; it was to my grandfather.”

“Gracious me! Then it must be very ancient, for you ain’t a chicken
yourself. I don’t mean no offence, Mounseer.”

“I am sure of that: it is just the English way. Eh well, my friends, you
have been so good to me that I owe you to explain. One does not talk of
the private affairs until the time comes. This is the time.”

And then he proceeded to relate a story that held the rapt attention of
his hearers. Escaping from persecution in France, he had brought with
him nothing but his rapier and the casket that contained a number of
valuable jewels, heirlooms in his family. These were his only means of
support. One by one, as he needed money, he had sold them to Mr. Slocum.
His wants being simple, he had made the money go a long way, and he
hoped that the contents of the casket would last for the rest of his
life.

“There now!” exclaimed Susan. “And you _would_ buy lollipops for Lucy!
You didn’t ought to, Mounseer, and I wouldn’t have allowed it if I’d
known.”

“And so you would have robbed me of a great pleasure,” said the old
gentleman.

“I see it now,” said Martin. “You sold your jewels from time to time to
Slocum, and he knew how valuable they were, though I don’t suppose he
paid you anything like what they were worth. And then he had planned to
rob Mr. Greatorex, and being greedy, wanted the rest of your jewels as
well. That explains the attacks on your room.”

Mounseer assented, adding that he had of course never suspected Mr.
Slocum of any part in those attacks. Determined to protect his property,
he had removed a length of the wainscoting of the wall of his room, and
hidden the casket in the cavity behind. When his room was ransacked,
this hiding-place remained undiscovered. He had only just removed the
casket when he was overcome by the smoke.

“And it is to you, my friend,” he said, turning to Martin, “that I owe
that I have still the means to live; and when I die, if any of my jewels
are left, they shall be to you: I will so ordain it in my testament.”

“That’s handsome said,” cried Dick Gollop.

“But I hope there will be none left,” said Martin, flushing.

“Meaning that you’ll live as long as Methusalem, Mounseer,” said Susan.
“And we all agree: of that I’m very sure.”

“I do not covet so long a life,” said Mounseer, “but it must be as the
good God pleases.”

“Ay, and what you can’t help, make the best of,” said Gollop. “That
Slocum and his crowd, now—their course is set for the gallows, and I
hope as they’ll put a cheerful face on it. Nothing upsets me more than
to see a man draw down his chops when he’s on his way to be hanged. He
can’t get out of it, so his looks might just as well be sweet as sour.”

Next day, when Mr. Greatorex paid his promised visit to the farm, he
brought some interesting news. The man who called himself Seymour, but
whose real name was Smith, had purchased his freedom by volunteering to
turn King’s evidence, and had already made a long statement. It appeared
that the man whom Martin had called Blackbeard was a brother of Slocum,
and had spent a good many years in piracy on the eastern seas. He had
captured Captain Leake’s vessel the _Merry Maid_, made some few
alterations in her cut—not skilfully enough to deceive the sharp eyes
of Dick Gollop—changed her name to the _Santa Maria_, and brought her
into dock after a brush with the French. He himself pretended to be a
foreigner and had assumed a foreign accent at times.

Meeting his brother after many years’ absence, he had suggested that the
most valuable articles in Mr. Greatorex’s stock of plate and jewellery
should be gradually transferred to his vessel, carried to Portugal and
sold. Seymour had been admitted as a partner, and had taken a lodging in
the same house as the Frenchman, partly because his room would be
convenient as a temporary storing place, and partly that he might assist
in the robbery of Mounseer’s valuables. The outbreak of the Fire had
enabled Slocum to carry off the whole of the stock openly.

Mr. Greatorex was loud in praise of Martin for the large share he had
had in saving the goods. He offered to take him as a regular apprentice,
but learning that Martin had a passion for the sea, he agreed to place
him on a King’s ship, and promised to take charge of Lucy. And being in
want of a gardener for his country house, he asked Gollop whether he
would like to exchange his constable’s staff for a spade.

“Well, sir, I take it kind of you,” said Dick. “I don’t mind if I do. I
knows nothing about gardening, but then I knowed nothing about the law
till I took up with it, and as a man of law I reckon I’ve a pretty good
name in London town. I’ll do my best, and if I ain’t very good at it
just at first, well, what _I_ can’t help, _you_'ll make the best of,
I’ll be bound.”

It only remained to dispose of Gundra. Susan Gollop undertook to give
him a home until Martin should sail on his first voyage to the East.
Some two years later Martin had the pleasure of restoring the boy to his
own family in Surat.

Slocum and his confederates were not destined to be hanged after all. It
was discovered one day that they had broken prison, and they were never
captured. Years afterwards, when Martin was a captain in the King’s
Navy, he was accosted one day in Portsmouth by a wretched-looking
beggar, who suddenly stopped in the midst of his whining plea for help
and slunk off rapidly round the first corner.

“I could swear that was Slocum,” Martin said to himself. “I suppose he
recognised me and was afraid I should give him up to justice. How it all
comes back to me—that night of the Fire!”

                                THE END




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES


Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been corrected or
standardised.

Inconsistency in accents has been corrected or standardised.

Illustrations have been relocated due to using a non-page layout.