Monmouth, James Scott, Duke of, 1649-1685 -- Fiction
The captain (who, I believe, was a naval officer in the Duke's secret)
was up on the wharf in an instant. I followed him, though the carpenter
clutched at me as I scrambled up. I kicked out behind like a donkey. I
didn't kick him, but some one thrust the carpenter aside in the hurry
so that I was free. In another seconds I was past the captain, running
after the pedlar, who started to run at a good speed, dropping his box
with a clatter. Half a dozen joined in the pursuit. The captain had his
sword out. They raised such a noise behind me that I thought the whole
crew was at my heels. The pedlar kept glancing behind; he knew very
little about running. He doubled from street to street, like a man at
his wits' ends. I could see that he was blown. When he entered into that
conspiracy, he had counted on the horsey man diverting suspicion from
him. Suddenly, after twisting round a corner, he darted through a swing
door into a stone-paved court, surrounded by brick walls. I was at his
heels at the moment or I should have lost him there. I darted through
the swing door after him. I went full sprawl over his body on the other
side. He had, quite used up, collapsed there.
CHAPTER VIII. I MEET MY FRIEND
“Give it me,” I said. “Give it me, Longshore Jack. Before they catch
us.” To my horror, I saw that the creature was a woman in a man's
clothes. She took me for one of her gang. She was too much frightened to
think things out. “I thought you were one of the other lot,” she gasped,
as she handed me a pocketbook.
“Didn't he get the letters, too?” I asked at a venture. “No,” she said,
sitting up, now, panting, to take a good look at me. I stared at her for
a moment. I, myself, was out of breath.
“They're going,” I said, hearing the noise of the pursuit passing away
in the check. “I'll just spy out the land.” I opened the door till it
was an inch or two ajar, so that I could see what was going on outside.
“They're gone,” I said again, still keeping up the pretence of being on
her side. As I said it, I glanced back to fix her features on my memory.
She had a pale, resolute face with fierce eyes, which seemed fierce from
pain, not from any cruelty of nature. It was a pleasant face, as far as
one could judge of a face made up to resemble a dirty pedlar's face.
Seeing my look, she seemed to watch me curiously, raising herself up,
till she stood unsteadily by the wall. “When did you come in?” she said,
meaning, I suppose, when did I join the gang.
“Last week,” I answered, swinging the door a little further open.
Footsteps were coming rapidly along the road. I heard excited voices, I
made sure that it was the search party going back to the schooner.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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