A Lad of Grit: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea in Restoration TimesWesterman, Percy F. (Percy Francis)
History
A Lad of Grit: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea in Restoration Times
Westerman, Percy F. (Percy Francis)
Adventure stories; Great Britain -- History -- Restoration, 1660-1688 -- Juvenile fiction
Immediately all was commotion. Women shrieked--men shouted. Sir George
Lee sprang to his feet and whipped out his sword. "Arrest him," he
ordered. Two men, who were attendants at the Court Leet, placed their
hands on Joyce’s shoulder.
"Unhand me, men!" he exclaimed; "’tis a mistake--a grave mistake. Would
ye pay heed to the ravings of a light-headed child?"
A wave of indecision swept over the people present; but, in spite of
extreme physical pain, I had raised myself on my elbow, and in reply I
repudiated the Roundhead’s taunt. "I am not light-headed nor is it a
mistake. That man shot my father with a petronel not a furlong from
this house."
But Joyce doggedly followed up his line of argument. "Look, worthy
sir," he reiterated, "the lad is still wandering. Why, when I came upon
them, the boy was stretched senseless on the roadway. I pray you, order
your men to release me. I journey on the business of the Commonwealth."
The two men released their hold, but Sir George turned on them with a
rage quite unusual to him. "Were ye told to unhand him, dolts?" he
shouted. "A messenger of the Commonwealth or no messenger, I take the
responsibility. Bind him, and away to Midhurst with him at once."
With an oath the scoundrel shook off his two captors and threw himself
bodily on Sir George. Taken unawares, the knight could ill defend
himself, and before the bystanders could interfere, a knife flashed in
the firelight and was buried in his body. Then the two henchmen
grappled with the Roundhead, and all three rolled in a heap on the
floor. It was not until the miscreant was stunned by a blow from a
milking stool that he was finally secured, and attention could be given
to Sir George Lee.
The knight was leaning against the wall, his head slightly bent, while a
deadly pallor overspread his face, on which, however, lurked a
peculiarly grim smile.
"Art hurt, Sir George?" asked Master Salesbury.
"Nay, Doctor, ’tis not a case for your hands this time, thanks to Lawyer
Whitehead; I am but winded."
"To Lawyer Whitehead! How?"
"Ay, to Lawyer Whitehead! ’Tis the first time in twenty-nine years that
I have been well served by a lawyer, and even this once it was not as a
deliberate act of kindness." And, drawing from his pocket a thick
bundle of parchment, partly cut through by the villain’s knife, he held
it up for inspection.
At that moment the door opened and a sturdy countryman entered, pulling
his forelock as a mark of respect to Sir George, and handed him a
petronel which I recognized only too well.
"Zure, sir, I did find ’e but d’ree paces from t’ road where they killed
Maister Wentworth."
Under guard, the villain, now in a half-dazed condition, was removed in
a cart to the jail at Midhurst. Most of those present dispersed, and,
faint and tired, I fell into a troubled sleep.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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