Ezra said nothing; he merely bent his head in a mute good-bye; and with Scarlett set off through the dark court. A sergeant of grenadiers bore them company; it was his duty to see that they went to the “Jolly Rover” as directed, and also that they were not molested by the guards that patrolled the streets.
They passed from Sun Court into Fleet Street, and from thence into Ship Street. This was on the harbor front and was badly kept and worse lighted. At one end was what was known as the North Battery; the wharves of merchants and dockyards of shipbuilders lined the water side of it; while upon the other were gloomy-fronted warehouses and the offices of shipmen of various degrees.
Midway, at White Bread Alley, they came to the “Jolly Rover.” It was tightly closed; not a light was to be seen.
“We are all hard put to it because of the closing of the inns,” said the sergeant of grenadiers. “There is no place to spend a comfortable hour when off duty of a night.”
He beat loudly upon the door. For a long time there was no result save the sharp summons of a guard who rounded the corner of Foster Lane.
“What’s this?” demanded the guard. “Have you no homes to go to that you are abroad at such an hour? And will nothing do but that you must make noise enough to wake the dead?”
“Use your eyes and your lanthorn, soldier,” spoke the sergeant gruffly. “If we are abroad it is because we must be. And as for the noise, it is made but to carry out the governor’s orders.”
The guard held up his light. Then, recognizing the sergeant, he saluted.
“Our orders call for the apprehension of all found abroad after hours,” apologized he.
A nightcapped head, lighted up by a sputtering candle, appeared at one of the upper windows of the inn.