I’ll carry you far, and I’ll carry you light, and drop you in your place,
And there shall you rest, and sleep your fill, and forget——’
“Blest if the commander don’t look as if he’d found a golden fortune,” cried the singer, breaking off, as Pomfrett stood beside us. The commander’s face was red and pale, his eyes shining, his whole figure quick with some extraordinary emotion. Curious to compare his vivacious entrance, after seeing Mistress Morgan Leroux, with the depression of Mr Dawkins’s return from the presence of the charmer. But, we are all like crystals, changing and brightening and dimmed again with every chance juxtaposition. The humble chronicler presents this philosophical reflection to the reader for what it is worth; he is aware it has naught to do with the story.
“Gamaliel, there’s a little business in hand, and we’re in a hurry. We won’t hurt you,” says Pomfrett.
No man knew better how to bind and gag than Mr Dawkins; two or three table-cloths, a drawer’s apron, and a curtain will serve as well as ropes upon occasion, and we had poor Hooky trussed like a fowl before he had time to open his mouth.
“Put him away in a safe place,” said Pomfrett, and Dawkins hove the Jew over his shoulder and carried him out.
Pomfrett caught me by the sleeve and hurried me upstairs, and there was Mistress Morgan Leroux, as staidly drest and as demure as any cit’s daughter in Bristol, and a thousand times prettier, though she was pale and thin.
And would Harry Winter, cried Pomfrett, in a wonderful stress of excitement, do him one last service? The said Harry Winter could not have refused had he desired to do so, and he assured the commander of his fidelity. Then was he, it appeared, to take charge of the lady, to carry her away to some secret place, and there keep her safe until Mr Pomfrett’s return. For there were news of the lost ship, the Blessed Endeavour; Pomfrett must put to sea again that very night. There was not a moment to spare; and if Mr Murch, whose return to the house was imminent, were to come upon us, all would be lost. The explanation was clear enough, so far as it went; there would be time enough for questions when we were forth of that dangerous house. We were in the passage leading to the back door when Dawkins came up.
“What! the pretty bird’s on the wing, is she?” says he. “You wouldn’t care to be took care of by old Dawkins, would you, now, my pretty dove? Not you, and very natural, I’m sure. Ah, well, twenty years ago Dawkins would ’a’ had another tune to call, I reckon. But—make so humbly bold, commander—was your convoy provisioned for the cruise?”
“Money! I clean forgot,” cried Pomfrett.