“Wildfire Ned,” was the answer, given in a suppressed tone of voice.
When this fact became known that Ned Warbeck was to be the commander-in-chief on this secret expedition, all rejoiced, for Ned’s name acted like a charm on the youth of London, who had long heard his name coupled with deeds of daring.
So secretly had the expedition been organized that but few of the good old tradesmen of the town had any notion of what was on foot.
Hence during the night, that is to say, from eight o’clock until eleven, was unusually quiet in the principal streets, and the night watch went their rounds with staff and lantern, calling the hour in croaking voices, but innocent of the great commotion which was shortly to take place.
Carriers and messengers were galloping hither and thither from Ned Warbeck to the leaders of the valiant Apprentices, giving his final instructions and orders.
Chief of these messengers was Tiny Tim.
He did not like fighting much, but as message carrying was not very dangerous work, and as he was passionately fond of riding good horses, he galloped here and there in great glee, and assuming all the airs of a commander-in-chief, that is to say, where he was not known.
Ned Warbeck, however, had been the busiest of all.
During the day he had sent out trusty scouts to ascertain the precise locality in which Death-wing and his infamous gang were secreted.
All manner of reports were brought back to him, but so contradictory that he knew not which nor what to believe.