“Who is that?” Martin murmured. George Hopton came and stood by him.
“Mr. Greatorex, to be sure,” answered Susan, “and a real kind gentleman. Brave too; ay, a man of bravery if ever there was one, and quick of his mind. He came riding up with this lad perched behind him, and the way he got off that horse—well, ’twas a wonderful spring for a man of his years. ‘Where’s Martin Leake?’ he sings out. ‘In the house,’ says I, ‘a-saving of the old gentleman on the first floor.’ ‘Isn’t there a man that could have done that?’ says he, scornful-like, looking round on the crowd. And I must own they was an idle lot, all eyes and no sense. Well, he didn’t wait a moment, but dashed into the house—though I’ll own this lad was in front of him. My heart was in my mouth when I saw ’em vanish into that furnace and heard ’em shouting for you——”
“Mounseer! what of Mounseer?” asked Martin again, as remembrance came to his dazed mind.
“Safe and sound, bless you,” replied Susan; “that is, he will be, when he’s come to proper. He’s over yonder, with a doctor looking after him. It seemed an age before Mr. Greatorex came out again, though I suppose ’twas no more than a minute or two. He had you in his arms, and my heart went pit-a-pat that dreadful when I saw your pale face and your poor burnt hands. And behind him was this lad with Mounseer on his back: a strong lad, and a good lad too. And you hadn’t been out of the house two ticks when the floors fell in with a terrible crash, and sparks flying all across the street. ’Twas a merciful Providence that sent Mr. Greatorex in the very nick of time to save you from being burnt alive.”
“But I don’t understand—Mr. Greatorex—how—why did he want me?”
“I can tell you that,” said Hopton. “I went up to the shop to see if there was anything left of it. My word! the ground did scorch my feet. Of course it’s nothing but a black ruin: all Cheapside is burnt. I was just coming away when Mr. Greatorex rode up. He’d come up from the country; only think: the smoke and bits of black paper and stuff have been carried forty or fifty miles away. He asked me about Slocum, and whether the goods had been saved in time; and then I told him all I knew, and said that the goods were safe on board the ship, and ’twas all owing to you. ‘Take me at once to that Martin Leake,’ says he, and he was in such a hurry that he made me get up on the saddle behind him: first time in my life I’ve ever been on a horse, and don’t I ache with the jolting! Then it happened as Mrs. Gollop said: we found you and the old Frenchman in a heap on the landing, and we weren’t long bringing you out, I can tell you.”
“And such foolishness of Mounseer!” said Susan. “Nearly lost his life, and yours too, and what for? Just for a bit of a box.”
“A brass-bound box?” said Martin.
“No, there’s no brass about it, so far as I could see, though he kept it so tight in his arms that no one could see it proper. He’d quite lost his senses when the lad brought him out, but d’you think he’d let go of that box? Not for ever so. He clung to it as if it was the most vallyble thing in the whole world—just a bit of a box, leather I fancy, but so old and worn that—there, you never can tell what queer things some folks take a fancy to.”
“But what’s in the box?”