“Don’t you talk lightly of the Lord Mayor, my man,” said his wife reproachfully.
“Pish! He’s scared out of his wits, no good at all. The King’s the man for my money. ’Twas he sent orders to pull down houses so’s the fire wouldn’t have nothing to feed on; but bless me! the Lord Mayor goes up and down wringing his hands and crying, ‘What can I do?’ But I’m dead beat, I say: all day and all night at it; I’ll drop asleep where I sit.”
“Pardon,” said the Frenchman’s voice in the doorway. “You are of return. Tell me, I pray, the house: is it safe?”
“Don’t worrit about the house, Mounseer,” said Gollop. “There’s more call to worrit about yourself. Keep below deck, that’s my advice to you. The people are raging about all foreigners, specially French and Dutch, and if they catch you in the street, ten to one they’ll do you a mischief. I saw a Frenchman nearly torn limb from limb by a parcel of women because he was carrying fire-balls, they said. Turned out to be tennis-balls; that’s their ignorance. Don’t go out, Mounseer: what you can’t help, make the best of.”
The Frenchman smiled and thanked him, and returned to his own apartment.
“You’re sure we’re safe, Gollop?” said Susan. “We can go to sleep in our beds?”
“Sure I’m going to sleep in mine,” answered Gollop. “One more drink, then——”
“If you’re so sure, why’s that Mr. Seymour so frightened, then? He’s been going in and out all day; men have been traipsing up and down, carrying out boxes and parcels and things. He’s not so sure, seemingly.”
The mention of Mr. Seymour reminded Martin of the button.
“I say, Susan,” he said, “where’s that button you found in the cupboard?”