“Used it–yet could not explain where it was?”
“I did not know it was THAT they wanted. They did not describe
it, your Majesty.”
“Then how used you it?”
The red blood began to steal up into Tom’s cheeks, and he dropped
his eyes and was silent.
“Speak up, good lad, and fear nothing,” said the King. “How used
you the Great Seal of England?”
Tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then got it out–
“To crack nuts with!”
Poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted this nearly
swept him off his feet. But if a doubt remained in any mind that
Tom Canty was not the King of England and familiar with the august
appurtenances of royalty, this reply disposed of it utterly.
Meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed from Tom’s
shoulders to the King’s, whose rags were effectually hidden from
sight under it. Then the coronation ceremonies were resumed; the
true King was anointed and the crown set upon his head, whilst
cannon thundered the news to the city, and all London seemed to
rock with applause.
Chapter XXXIII. Edward as King.
Miles Hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on
London Bridge–he was more so when he got out of it. He had but
little money when he got in, none at all when he got out. The
pickpockets had stripped him of his last farthing.
But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he did not
go at his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to
arrange his campaign.
What would the boy naturally do? Where would he naturally go?
Well–argued Miles–he would naturally go to his former haunts,
for that is the instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and
forsaken, as well as of sound ones. Whereabouts were his former
haunts? His rags, taken together with the low villain who seemed
to know him and who even claimed to be his father, indicated that
his home was in one or another of the poorest and meanest
districts of London. Would the search for him be difficult, or
long? No, it was likely to be easy and brief. He would not hunt
for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a big
crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find his poor
little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining
itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be
proclaiming himself King, as usual. Then Miles Hendon would
cripple some of those people, and carry off his little ward, and
comfort and cheer him with loving words, and the two would never
be separated any more.
So Miles started on his quest. Hour after hour he tramped through
back alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds, and
finding no end of them, but never any sign of the boy. This
greatly surprised him, but did not discourage him. To his notion,
there was nothing the matter with his plan of campaign; the only
miscalculation about it was that the campaign was becoming a
lengthy one, whereas he had expected it to be short.
When daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a mile, and
canvassed many a crowd, but the only result was that he was
tolerably tired, rather hungry and very sleepy. He wanted some
breakfast, but there was no way to get it. To beg for it did not
occur to him; as to pawning his sword, he would as soon have
thought of parting with his honour; he could spare some of his
clothes–yes, but one could as easily find a customer for a
disease as for such clothes.
At noon he was still tramping–among the rabble which followed
after the royal procession, now; for he argued that this regal
display would attract his little lunatic powerfully. He followed
the pageant through all its devious windings about London, and all
the way to Westminster and the Abbey. He drifted here and there
amongst the multitudes that were massed in the vicinity for a
weary long time, baffled and perplexed, and finally wandered off,