"He's a stranger, by that cloak with the silver lace," replied the other: "most likely come over in the ship that nearly ran upon the pier last night. He carries a sword, too. Those English make monkeys even of their children; but he is a good-looking youth nevertheless, and bears himself manly. Ah! there is that worthless vagabond, Pierrot la Grange, speaking to him. And now Master Pierrot is coming here. I will have naught to do with him or his." And, so saying, he turned into his shop.
The other tradesman waited without, proposing in his own mind to ask Pierrot sundry questions regarding his young companion; for, although he had no curiosity, as he frequently assured his neighbors, yet he always liked to know who every-body was, and what was his business.
Pierrot, however, had only had time to cross over from the other corner of the street and ask, in a civil, and even sober, tone, where the dwelling of Monsieur Clement Tournon could be found, when the good tradesman exclaimed, "My life! what is that?" and instantly darted across the street as fast as a somewhat short pair of legs could carry him.
Now, the street there was not very wide; but it was crossed by one much broader within fifty yards of the spot where the shopkeeper was standing, called in that day "Rue de l'Horloge." It may have gone by a hundred names since. The street was quite vacant, too, when Pierrot addressed the tradesman; but the moment after, two sailors came up the Rue de l'Horloge, and one of them, as soon as he set eyes on Master Ned, who was standing with his back to the new-comers, laid his hand upon his shoulder and said something in a tone apparently not the most civil, for the lad instantly shook himself free, turned round, and put his hand upon the hilt of the short sword he carried. It seemed to the good shopkeeper that he made an effort to draw it; but whether it fitted too close, or it had got somewhat rusted to the scabbard during the previous rainy night, it would not come forth; and in the mean time the sailor struck him a thundering blow on the head with a stick he carried. The youth fell to the ground at once, but he did not get up again, and the two tradesmen ran up, crying, "Shame! shame! Seize the fellow!"
"You've killed him, Tom, by the Lord!" cried the other sailor. "You deserve hanging; but get back to the ship if you would escape it. Quick! quick! or they will stop you."
"He was drawing his sword on me!" cried our friend Tom, whose quarrel—not the first one—with Master Ned we have already seen as the ship neared the Isle of Rhé. But, not quite confident in the availability of his excuse, he took his companion's advice and began to run, turning the corner of the Rue de l'Horloge. One of the tradesmen pursued him, however, shouting, "Stop him! stop him!" and the malevolent scoundrel had not run thirty yards, when he was seized by a strong, middle-aged man, who was walking up the street with an elderly companion and was followed by two common men dressed as porters.
The sailor made a struggle to get free, but it was in vain; and the shopkeeper, who was pursuing, soon made the whole affair known to his captors.
The elderly man with the white beard put one or two questions to the prisoner, to which he received no reply; for since that untoward event of the Tower of Babel the world is no longer of one speech, and Tom was master of no other than his own.
"Take him to the prison," said the old man, addressing the two men who had been following him. "Do not use him roughly, but see that he does not escape."