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.”