“Well, John, you have come here, have you, with a lighted candle to look for sixpence in a barrel of gunpowder. Where have you been all these weeks?”
Mr. Pepys’s manner was the manner of a man who had some reason for being honestly perturbed.
“Within ten miles of the place you left me at, Sam. I have come up for news and money.”
Mr. Pepys looked at him steadily, yet with a species of alarmed awe.
“News, John! Gracious God, we are shaken in our shoes with fresh news every other day! You have heard of the Plot, of course.”
“Plot! What plot?”
Mr. Pepys’s silent stare expressed infinite things. He stepped forward, tapped John Gore on the chest with his forefinger, then stepped back again, and made him a reverence.
“Can I bow, sir, to a gentleman who has never heard of Titus Oates? Alack, John, I fear me I have many sad and solemn things to tell you! I thought that you had heard everything, and that you were wintering in the country—like a wise man. For it is not flattering at present to bear the name of Gore.”
He saw the sea-captain straighten suddenly in his chair and look up at him keenly.
“What do you mean, Sam?”