“To the backbone—to the shedding of my blood. Stand by me now in my distress: and while I have either soul or body, I will peril them for your safety.”
“Pigtop, I believe you. Say no more about it. I engage you as my travelling tutor; and I will pay you your salary when I come of age—that is, if I am able. Now, what money have you?”
“Three pounds, fifteen shillings, and sevenpence-halfpenny. Not enough to take me down to the guard-ship, when I have paid my bill at the tavern.”
“Then, my good fellow, go and pay it immediately, and come back with all possible speed.” The prompt obedience that he gave to my first order augured well for his attention.
On his return, I addressed him seriously to this effect: “My friend, you shall share with me to the last shilling; but, believe me, my position is as dangerous as it is unnatural. It is full of difficulty, and requires not only conduct, but courage. I have a parent that either dares not, or from some sinister motive will not, own me; and I fear me much that I have a half-brother that I know is pursuing me with the assassin’s knife, whilst I am pursuing him with the vengeance of the law. It is either the death of the hunted dog for me, or of the felon’s scaffold for him. The event is in the hand of God. We must be vigilant, for my peril is great. My implacable enemy is leagued with some of the worst miscreants of this vast resort of villainy; he knows all the labyrinths of this Babel of iniquity; and the fraternal steel may be in my bosom even amidst the hum of multitudes. That man has a strong motive for my death, and to personify me afterwards. Already has he stolen my vouchers and my certificates. The mystery to me appears almost inscrutable; but his inducements to destroy me are obvious enough. I think that I am tolerably safe here, though I am equally sure that I am watched. Here is money. Go now, and purchase two brace of serviceable pistols and a couple of stout sword-canes. We will be prepared for the worst. Of course you will sleep here, and hereafter always take up your abode in whatever place I may be. As you return, you must find, in some quiet street, an unobtrusive tailor—he must not have a shop—bring him with you. I must put you in livery, after all.”
“Why, if so be you must, I suppose you must—I’m off.”
Pigtop did his commissions well. He returned with the arms and the tailor. “I hope,” said he, “you won’t want me to wear this livery long?”
“Not long, I hope. My friend,” said I, addressing the man of measures, “this gentleman, lately in the navy, has had recently a very serious turn. He is profoundly repentant of the wickedness of his past life—he has had a call—he has listened to it. It is not unlikely that he may shortly take out a licence to preach. Make him a suit of sad-coloured clothes, not cut out after the vanities of the world. Your own would not serve for a bad model. You go to meeting, I presume?”
“I have received grace—I eschew the steeple-house—I receive the blessed crumbs of the Word that fall from the lips of that light of salvation, the Reverend Mr Obadiah Longspinner.”
“A holy and a good man, doubtless; would that we were all like him! But our time will come—yes, our time will come. As is the outward man of the Reverend Mr Obadiah Longspinner, so would my friend have his outward man—verily, and his inward also—improved unto sanctity.”