“Art sure?”
“Sure, your worship.”
“Collect thy scattered wits–bethink thee–take time, man.”
After a moment’s thought, the servant said–
“When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as
the two stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking
man plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining
them–”
“What THEN?–out with it!” thundered the impatient Hendon,
interrupting.
“Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw
no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a
joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all
the saints to witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were
like holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com–”
“Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold!
Whither art flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they
toward Southwark?”
“Even so, your worship–for, as I said before, as to that
detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than–
”
“Art here YET! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!”
The servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and
plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, “‘Tis
that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost
thee, my poor little mad master–it is a bitter thought–and I had
come to love thee so! No! by book and bell, NOT lost! Not lost,
for I will ransack the land till I find thee again. Poor child,
yonder is his breakfast–and mine, but I have no hunger now; so,
let the rats have it–speed, speed! that is the word!” As he
wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the Bridge
he several times said to himself–clinging to the thought as if it
were a particularly pleasing one–“He grumbled, but he WENT–he
went, yes, because he thought Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad–he
would ne’er have done it for another, I know it well.”
Chapter XIV. ‘Le Roi est mort–vive le Roi.’
Toward daylight of the same morning, Tom Canty stirred out of a
heavy sleep and opened his eyes in the dark. He lay silent a few
moments, trying to analyse his confused thoughts and impressions,
and get some sort of meaning out of them; then suddenly he burst
out in a rapturous but guarded voice–
“I see it all, I see it all! Now God be thanked, I am indeed
awake at last! Come, joy! vanish, sorrow! Ho, Nan! Bet! kick off
your straw and hie ye hither to my side, till I do pour into your
unbelieving ears the wildest madcap dream that ever the spirits of
night did conjure up to astonish the soul of man withal! . . . Ho,
Nan, I say! Bet!”
A dim form appeared at his side, and a voice said–
“Wilt deign to deliver thy commands?”
“Commands? . . . O, woe is me, I know thy voice! Speak thou–who
am I?”
“Thou? In sooth, yesternight wert thou the Prince of Wales; to-
day art thou my most gracious liege, Edward, King of England.”
Tom buried his head among his pillows, murmuring plaintively–
“Alack, it was no dream! Go to thy rest, sweet sir–leave me to
my sorrows.”
Tom slept again, and after a time he had this pleasant dream. He
thought it was summer, and he was playing, all alone, in the fair
meadow called Goodman’s Fields, when a dwarf only a foot high,
with long red whiskers and a humped back, appeared to him suddenly
and said, “Dig by that stump.” He did so, and found twelve bright
new pennies–wonderful riches! Yet this was not the best of it;
for the dwarf said–
“I know thee. Thou art a good lad, and a deserving; thy
distresses shall end, for the day of thy reward is come. Dig here
every seventh day, and thou shalt find always the same treasure,
twelve bright new pennies. Tell none–keep the secret.”
Then the dwarf vanished, and Tom flew to Offal Court with his
prize, saying to himself, “Every night will I give my father a
penny; he will think I begged it, it will glad his heart, and I