“Why, for a good turn. I’ll fog these gentry for thee. Many thanks, comrade,” as I pull’d out the last few shillings of my pocket money. “Now pitch thy sword over the wall here, and set thy foot on my hand. ’Tis a rich man’s garden, t’other side, that I was meaning to explore myself; but another night will serve.”
“’Tis Master Carter’s,” said I; “and he’s my kinsman.”
“The devil!—but never mind, up with thee! Now mark a pretty piece of play. ’Tis pity thou shouldst be across the wall and unable to see.”
He gave a great hoist: catching at the coping of the wall, I pull’d myself up and sat astride of it.
“Good turf below—ta-ta, comrade!”
By now, the crowd was almost at the corner. Dropping about eight feet on to good turf, as the fellow had said, I pick’d myself up and listen’d.
“Which way went he?” call’d one, as they came near.
“Down the street!” “No: up the lane!’” “Hush!” “Up the lane, I’ll be sworn.” “Here, hand the lantern!” &c., &c.
While they debated, my friend stood close on the other side of the wall: but now I heard him dash suddenly out, and up the lane for his life. “There he goes!” “Stop him!” the cries broke out afresh. “Stop him, i’ the king’s name!” The whole pack went pelting by, shouting, stumbling, swearing.
For two minutes or more the stragglers continued to hurry past by ones and twos. As soon as their shouts died away, I drew freer breath and look’d around.