And dashing my left fist on the nose of a watchman who would have seized me, I clear’d a space with Anthony’s sword, made a run for the casement, and dropp’d out upon the bowling-green.
A pretty shout went up as I pick’d myself off the turf and rush’d for the back door. ’Twas unbarr’d, and in a moment I found myself tearing down the passage and out into the Corn Market, with a score or so tumbling downstairs at my heels, and yelling to stop me. Turning sharp to my right, I flew up Ship Street, and through the Turl, and doubled back up the High Street, sword in hand. The people I pass’d were too far taken aback, as I suppose, to interfere. But a many must have join’d in the chase: for presently the street behind me was thick with the clatter of footsteps and cries of “A thief—a thief! Stop him!”
At Quater Voies I turn’d again, and sped down toward St. Aldate’s, thence to the left by Wild Boar Street, and into St. Mary’s Lane. By this, the shouts had grown fainter, but were still following. Now I knew there was no possibility to get past the city gates, which were well guarded at night. My hope reach’d no further than the chance of outwitting the pursuit for a while longer. In the end I was sure the potboy’s evidence would clear me, and therefore began to enjoy the fun. Even my certain expulsion from College on the morrow seem’d of a piece with the rest of events and (prospectively) a matter for laughter. For the struggle at the “Crown” had unhinged my wits, as I must suppose and you must believe, if you would understand my behavior in the next half hour.
A bright thought had struck me: and taking a fresh wind, I set off again round the corner of Oriel College, and down Merton Street toward Master Timothy Carter’s house, my mother’s cousin. This gentleman—who was town clerk to the Mayor and Corporation of Oxford—was also in a sense my guardian, holding in trust about L200 (which was all my inheritance), and spending the same jealously on my education. He was a very small, precise lawyer, about sixty years old, shaped like a pear, with a prodigious self-important manner that came of associating with great men: and all the knowledge I had of him was pick’d up on the rare occasions (about twice a year) that I din’d at his table. He had early married and lost an aged shrew, whose money had been the making of him: and had more respect for law and authority than any three men in Oxford. So that I reflected, with a kind of desperate hilarity, on the greeting he was like to give me.
This kinsman of mine had a fine house at the east end of Merton Street as you turn into Logic Lane: and I was ten yards from the front door, and running my fastest, when suddenly I tripp’d and fell headlong.
Before I could rise, a hand was on my shoulder, and a voice speaking in my ear—
“Pardon, comrade. We are two of a trade, I see.”
’Twas a fellow that had been lurking at the corner of the lane, and had thrust out a leg as I pass’d. He was pricking up his ears now to the cries of “Thief—thief!” that had already reach’d the head of the street, and were drawing near.
“I am no thief,” said I. “Quick!” He dragged me into the shadow of the lane. “Hast a crown in thy pocket?”
“Why?”