“We can do nothing more,” he said. “I’d like to look at these bits of paper carefully downstairs.”
“They’re just love-letters or other rubbidge,” scoffed Mrs. Gollop, “and I’ve come up all these stairs for nothing at all!”
But half an hour later Martin, poring over the papers spread before him on the table by the light of two candles, was inclined to think that the journey had not been in vain. He had put together a number of scraps that appeared to be all in the same handwriting, and by shifting their positions until the torn edges fitted together he had composed a sentence or two that clearly formed part of a letter. What he read was as follows:
. . . . Maria sails on Tuesday. All cargo must be stowed by Monday. Tell W. S. that I do not communicate with him direct, for reasons which . . .
There was no more. Martin was at no loss to understand that the vessel sailing on Tuesday was the Santa Maria; nor was it long before he came to another conclusion. W. S. were the initials of his old employer, William Slocum.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
’PRENTICES TO THE RESCUE
Dick Gollop and Martin both rose very late next morning. They left the house together, but soon parted, the former to return to his duty, the latter to resume his self-imposed office of helping people in need.
The Fire was still raging unchecked, and was spreading from the riverside streets towards the heart of the city. Many people who had indulged a careless belief in the safety of their dwellings had now flown to the opposite extreme of panic and despair, and the supply of carts, barrows, and wherries was hopelessly unequal to the demands of those anxious to save their goods. The streets in every direction were blocked by frantic fugitives, and the fields north of the city were already dotted with the encampments of homeless people.