But it was as the boy feared. Master Dirk Hatfield knew all the roads and cross-paths, even in the darkness, and, like a fox, his first efforts were devoted to winding and doubling upon his trail. But they felt that he was headed for London, and so pressed on in that direction.
They reached the capital late one afternoon, and sent the horses to a person whom their owner had indicated.
“Now,” said Ethan, after this had been attended to, “I think the first thing that we should do is to get a change of costume—something less noticeable than we are now wearing.”
“I have been thinking of that,” said Dale. “This scarlet coat makes me a marked man, and that is not good for one who does not desire to be observed.”
They sought out the district down near the water-side where they knew there would be slop-shops whose proprietors would be only too glad to turn an honest penny and keep silent. They came upon such a place within a few moments after entering the quarter frequented by the seamen who came into that port. There were old clothes in great variety hung about the door upon pegs, and a long-bearded, hook-nosed man prowled up and down, his sharp eyes ever alert for customers.
“Oh,” said he, rubbing his hands together as they paused before the place. “How do you do, Jack? Soldier, I am glad to see you, my son. Just step inside. If it is clothing you want, or jewelry, you have come to the right place. I have a stock, my dears, that can’t be matched in London.”
“For badness, I suppose you mean,” said Ethan, as they followed him in.
The hook-nosed man laughed and jagged the boy playfully with his elbow.
“Jack-tars,” said he, “always like their joke. But I enjoy it, my son; for I understand your fun.”
He looked at them from under shaggy brows, with eyes that twinkled with cunning.