Here he left me to guess what I had been.
Be that as it may, I was pleased enough with the change for so far, and spared my fee to the barber. And as for my old comrades, I had other signs to make myself known to them, as they soon discovered by the aching of their heads and the soreness of their ribs. For I soon shook off my sickness and was as ready for knocks as ever.
Yet you may guess if, with it all, I was merry!
The printing-house without Temple Bar was as black and desolate as a tomb, with a great lock belonging to the Stationers’ Company hanging on the door. When I asked the neighbours concerning my master, they pulled long faces and told me he was given over to desperate ventures, and with his family had fled the country; and ’twas well for him, said they, no one knew where he hid.
I knew not which way to turn. My sweet Jeannette was far away amid perils I little dreamed of. Ludar was, perhaps, even now a prisoner in Spain. My occupation was gone, and my pocket and my stomach were both empty.
Could I have lived on naught, I think I should even have tried to make my way to Spain (as if it were no bigger a place than Temple Gardens!) and so find Ludar. Then I changed my mind and thought to set out for Ireland to seek Jeannette. Then, when I saw a fellow enlisting troopers for the Dutch wars, I well-nigh sold myself to him.
I might have done so straight out, had not there come a loud thump on my back as I stood in the crowd, and a voice in my ear that made me start.
“Are you so weary of life, comrade, that you want a leaden pill or two to cure it?”
“Verily, I am,” said I, wheeling round and facing Tom Price, Captain Merriman’s man.
At first he knew me not, nor when I told him my name would he believe he spake to Humphrey Dexter. But when at last he knew me, he clapped me again on the back and said—