“I'm sure they will,” cried the impatient Godfrey; “and you shall have them.”
“Your hand, then;—it's a bargain,” quoth Ikey, thrusting out his fist, and striking a heavy blow in the centre of Godfrey's palm. “Now, what's the job?”
Godfrey rapidly stated his case, and, with all the eloquence he possessed, endeavoured to stimulate the drowsy fellow, on whom his chief hopes now depended, to a state of activity. Ikey listened to him, with closed eyes, and did not seem to comprehend a tythe of what he heard. When Godfrey had concluded, he merely observed, “I'll have a shy!” and staggered out of the yard, more like a drunkard reeling home from a debauch, than a man despatched to find out an unknown individual in the heart of a busy and populous city.
“The William and Mary, by which I was to sail, lies at King-road,” said Godfrey to the clerk, as Ikey Pope departed; “the wind, I perceive, is fair, and sail she will, this evening, without a doubt. Unfortunate fellow that I am!—every moment is an age to me.”
“Perhaps you'd like to sit down in the office,” said the clerk; “I can offer you a seat and yesterday's paper.”
“Thank you, thank you!” replied Godfrey; “but I fear pursuit, too:—I cannot rest here.”
The young man again walked into the streets: he inquired of almost every person he met, for the little black porter; but no one could give him any information. At last, a crowd began to gather around him, and he was, with very little ceremony, unanimously voted a lunatic. Two or three fellows had even approached to lay hands on him, when his eye suddenly encountered that of Ikey Pope: breaking through the crowd at once, he hurried back, with Ikey, to the wagon-office.
“I've won the boots,” said Ikey, as they entered the yard.
“Which way?—how?—Have you seen him?—Where is he?” eagerly inquired Godfrey.
“I can't make out where he is,” replied Ikey; “but I happened to drop into the house where he smokes his pipe, and there I heard the whole yam. He brought the chest there.”