Thus John Burley made his way into town, and paused at the first public-house. Out of that house he came with a jovial air, and on he strode toward the heart of London. Now he is in Leicester-square, and he gazes on the foreigners who stalk that region, and hums a tune; and now from yonder alley two forms emerge, and dog his careless footsteps; now through the maze of passages toward St. Martin's he threads his path, and, anticipating an orgy as he nears his favorite haunts, jingles the silver in his pockets; and now the two forms are at his heels.
"Hail to thee, O Freedom!" muttered John Burley; "thy dwelling is in cities, and thy palace is the tavern."
"In the king's name," quoth a gruff voice and John Burley feels the horrid and familiar tap on the shoulder.
The two bailiffs who dogged have seized their prey.
"At whose suit?" asked John Burley falteringly.
"Mr. Cox, the wine-merchant."
"Cox! A man to whom I gave a check on my bankers, not three months ago!"
"But it warn't cashed."
"What does that signify?—the intention was the same. A good heart takes the will for the deed. Cox is a monster of ingratitude; and I withdraw my custom."
"Sarve him right. Would your honor like a jarvey?"