Those were brave old days in London town, when we laughed and idled around, free and happy as the larks. Naught to do save enjoy ourselves; naught to think of save the color of some fair lady's eyes. Sweet, happy days—but gone forever!
Even now, when my hair has grown as white as the driven snow and my eye is dim and feeble, I think of them sometimes with a smile. I would give all of worldly fame and fortune I possess, if, for one brief moment, I could feel again the bounding blood of youth pulse through my withered veins, and my bent form could straighten with the old proud fire, and my step be as light and care-free as of yore; if in my ears could ring the sound of those dear voices—Walter Raleigh's ringing laugh, Bobby Vane's piping tones—and if those true and tried friends—many of whom are scattered east and west, some of whom sleep the last, long, quiet sleep—could be gathered with me as of yore in the great room about the roaring fire of the Mermaid Inn.
A great bar of light loomed ahead of me across the narrow street, and as I drew nearer I heard the sound of shouting and carousing, the clink of glasses, and the deep roars of laughter of the drinkers. Evidently some crowd held high carnival to-night, bent on feasting and frolic.
Nearing the latticed window, I peered in. It was a low room in a tavern, its ceiling black with smoke and age. A great log fire roared up the wide fireplace. Around a long table in the center of the room was seated what looked to me like the crew of some foreign ship—swarthy-faced, with earrings hanging from their ears, and cutlasses and swords buckled around their waists—they seemed none too good for any wild deed of crime and plunder.
There were some twenty-five or thirty of them, who, flagons in hand, sat about the table, telling many strange tales of the unknown regions of the Spanish Main, and motioning to the waiters, who ran frantically to and fro, filling the ever empty glasses. They were plainly the terror and admiration of the other guests, who, huddled together in a corner near the chimney, leered and whispered at their boisterous conduct and wild appearance.
I looked in at them for a few moments, aroused from my thoughts by the extraordinary spectacle. It was doubtless the crew of some foreign merchant vessel, probably a Spaniard, who, returning from a long voyage to the West, and touching at London, had chosen this night to celebrate their return to civilization.
As I peered in, a door at the rear of the room opened, and there advanced rapidly into the room my pursuer, whom I had but just outwitted a few brief moments ago in the alley. Hot and breathless he stood there, as though he had just emerged from some race, and I chuckled when I thought what a chase I must have given him.
He crossed the room to where the foreign seamen drank and feasted; bending over two, who sat at the head of the table, he placed his hands upon their shoulders, and whispered a few words in their ears. Instantly they rose, and putting on their caps, followed him out through the rear door, deaf to the taunts and entreaties of their comrades to "drink one more glass."
