MARTIN OF OLD

LONDON

By

HERBERT STRANG

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON : HUMPHREY MILFORD

STORIES FOR BOYS

by HERBERT STRANG

Adventures of Dick Trevanion, The

Adventures of Harry Rochester, The

A Gentleman-at-arms

Air Patrol, The

Air Scout, The

Barclay of the Guides

Boys of the Light Brigade

Humphrey Bold

Jack Brown in China

Kobo

One of Clive’s Heroes

Palm Tree Island

Rob the Ranger

Samba

Settlers and Scouts

Sultan Jim

Tom Burnaby

Winning His Name

With Drake on the Spanish Main

REPRINTED 1936 IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE

UNIVERSITY PRESS, OXFORD, BY JOHN JOHNSON

Martin of Old London

CHAPTER THE FIRST

THE WAITING BOAT

One fine evening in the August of the year 1666, Martin Leake, aged fourteen and a few months, had strolled down to the riverside for a breath of air.

It had been a terribly hot day. The whole month had been fine and dry; the narrow streets of London were stuffy and smelly, and it was a relief to escape from them to the bank of the broad Thames, where the easterly wind carried in a sharp salt tang from the sea.

The river always had a charm for Martin. In those days it might have been called the main highway of London City, and he loved to watch the wherries laden with passengers, and the tall ships lying at anchor or floating up or down on the tide.

He sauntered on and on, every now and then exchanging a nod or smile or cheery word with some waterman he knew. But most of the watermen were busy on the river, and as the evening went on Martin met fewer and fewer people.

Presently he sat down to rest near the head of a flight of stairs that led down to the water. A broad stone post gave support for his back, and leaning against it he watched the sun sinking into a fiery sky, and the lights that began to twinkle on the ships moored in the stream.

It was very peaceful. The only sounds that reached his ears were the plash of oars in passing boats and the voices of the watermen and their passengers.

Turning to look in the other direction, he noticed for the first time a ship’s boat straining at her painter, which was made fast to a ring at the foot of the stairs. In the boat sat, or rather crouched, a solitary seaman—a man with a very dark face and long, coal-black hair. His head was bent forward on his crossed arms; it seemed that the light rise and fall of the boat on the tide had rocked him to sleep. He wore a sailor’s long red cap and an orange-coloured jersey.

A waterman passing at the moment stopped and smiled as he glanced at the slumbering figure. Observing Martin, he said:

“They sleep like cats, these foreigners.”

“He’s a foreigner, then?”

“For sure: out of the Portugal ship repairing at Deptford. Her mizzen-mast, they say, was shot away by a French privateer nigh the Goodwins. Very bold these Frenchies are of late, though I did hear as the Duke of York have give ’em a good drubbing.”

He said Good-night and passed on.

All was still again. The glow faded from the sky. Martin’s eyes were attracted by a three-master that glided out of the dusk, dropping down with the tide. He watched her graceful shape threading her way among the smaller craft on the river, and wondered where she was bound for, what adventures she would meet with on her voyage.

She had almost disappeared when Martin was roused from his reverie by the sound of footsteps on the cobbled roadway behind him. Peeping round the edge of the post, he saw, in the gloom, a man come forward to the head of the stairs. There he paused and threw a look round in the manner of a person who is ill at ease.

Martin caught a glimpse of his face, and, with a start of surprise, shrank back into the shelter of the post. The man had not seen him. Next moment he stepped down the stairs, and in a low voice hailed the seaman slumbering in the boat.

There was no answer. The newcomer called again, more urgently. This time the sailor stirred, straightened himself, mumbled a reply, and hauling on the painter, drew the boat alongside the lower stairs. The man stepped into it, casting another suspicious glance around as he seated himself on the stern thwart.

A word was spoken that Martin did not catch. Then the seaman cast off, thrust his oars into the rowlocks, and with long, swinging strokes drove the boat into the darkness downstream.

“What’s Mr. Slocum after?” said Martin to himself as he got up and started for home.

CHAPTER THE SECOND

MARTIN AT HOME

And who was Mr. Slocum?

Martin was the only son of a master mariner who, retiring after many years at sea, had settled in a little house near the Tower. He had suffered many misfortunes. Ship after ship in which he had invested his savings was lost, and the last of them, the Merry Maid, sailing from Bristol in the year ’62, had never been heard of again.

“Have you seen or heard aught of the Merry Maid?” was the question the old captain had put to all seafaring men coming into the river.

The answer was always the same. Martin often wondered what had become of the vessel. Many a time he wished that he could go sailing over the seas to try to find some trace of her. But when his father and mother both died of the Plague, he felt bound to stay on shore and help to look after his little sister Lucy.

They were left almost destitute, having nothing except the small sum that was realised by the sale of Captain Leake’s furniture. This was in the hands of a lawyer, and as it would bring in only a few shillings a week, it was clear that Martin would have to earn something.

He was taken from St. Paul’s school, and the lawyer found him a job in the shop of Mr. Greatorex, a wealthy goldsmith in Cheapside, who had known his father, and indeed had had an interest in the Merry Maid.

“I’ll give the lad a trial,” Mr. Greatorex had said when the lawyer approached him. “He’ll not get on very far unless he is apprenticed, of course; but I’m not inclined to take him as an apprentice without a premium; at any rate, until I find out the kind of lad he is. I’ve lost hundreds of pounds in that unlucky vessel. Let him come and do odd jobs for a while. Mr. Slocum will tell me how he gets on.”

Martin had never seen Mr. Greatorex himself. Unlike most of the city merchants of that day, who lived over their shops, the goldsmith had built himself a house in the country, and left his business almost entirely to Mr. Slocum, his manager.

There were three apprentices who lived in the house, two of them sleeping under the shop counter. They rather despised the new boy. Martin had to come early in the morning to take down the shutters and sweep out the shop. All day he was running errands between the shop and the workrooms in Foster Lane, or carrying parcels to customers, or fetching things for Mr. Slocum and the housekeeper.

At the close of business he had to put up the shutters, and was often very tired by the time he reached home. At first one or two of the apprentices were inclined to bully him, but he showed himself to have plenty of spirit and a neat way with his fists, and his tormentors soon learnt to leave him alone. But his life was a hard one. Mr. Slocum was ill-tempered, and nothing but Martin’s care for his sister kept him from running away to sea.

All the way home Martin puzzled about Mr. Slocum’s journey down the river in the foreign boat. The apprentices talked among themselves about their master, and Martin knew that he often went out at night, not returning until very late. He was late also in the morning, except when Mr. Greatorex was expected to ride in from the country. And his temper seemed to grow worse every day. He barked at the apprentices like an angry dog, and if they or Martin committed the slightest fault, they had learnt to expect a thrashing.

The house where Martin lived was a large old building that stood by itself some distance from the riverside. It had once been the mansion of a nobleman, but of late years it had been let out in tenements.

The basement was occupied by an old seaman named Dick Gollop and his wife. Gollop had served under Captain Leake in many a voyage, and retired at the same time, obtaining employment as a constable. His thick round figure and bandy legs were well known along the waterside, and he was so good-tempered that the small boys of the neighbourhood liked to go with him on his rounds, and beg him to tell them a story.

When Martin and his sister were left homeless it was arranged that they should live with the Gollops, the lawyer paying a small sum weekly for their board and lodging. Martin slept in a small parlour at the back, and Lucy in a slip room. They had their meals with the constable and his wife, whose tongue was sometimes rather sharp, but whose heart was kind.

“You’re late to-night, young master,” said Susan Gollop as Martin entered the kitchen. Supper was on the table, and Lucy had already begun her meal. Gollop was not present.

“Look what I’ve got,” said the little girl, holding up a cake of hardbake.

“Ay, the Mounseer gentleman will spoil you, that he will,” said Susan. “I never liked foreigners, but the Mounseer has a kind heart, and he has took to you most uncommon.”

The Mounseer was an old French gentleman who had fled from persecution in France a few years before, and now occupied the first floor of the Gollops’ house. He had struck up a friendship with Lucy, and regularly every day escorted her to and from the dame’s school she attended about a mile away. Mrs. Gollop was glad to earn a little every week for looking after his room and his clothes; but he bought his own food and did himself what little cooking he needed.

“And what do you think?” Susan went on. “The second floor is let at last.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Martin. “You’ll get more money now.”

“I wish I might,” said the old woman. “But the new gentleman will do for himself. He’s a nice, fair-spoken gentleman, I will say that, Seymour by name, and I wonder at him making his own bed and dusting and all that. But there, I suppose he knows his own business; it’s not for me to say; only I would have liked to make a shilling or two extra doing for him as I did for the lodger what’s gone.”

At this moment heavy footsteps were heard clumping down the stone stairs.

“Here’s my old man,” said Susan, going to the door.

“A fine night, my hearties,” said the constable as he came in. “And plaguey hot. Never did I know a summer as dry as this. Give me a drink, Sue.”

He hung his three-cornered hat on a peg, threw his staff into a corner, stripped off his long coat, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His broad red face beamed as he sat down to his simple supper of bread and cheese and beer.

“Well, young master, what’s your own news to-day?” he said to Martin. “Have you been conveying gold and silver about the city? When I think of the watches and the goblets and the golden rings you carry on you, I wonder to myself whether, being a constable, I oughtn’t to go with you.”

“I haven’t done much of that to-day,” said Martin. “I had to fetch some tobacco for Mr. Slocum—ah, I must tell you! I was down by the river just now, and I saw Mr. Slocum get into a boat with a foreign sailor, from a Portugal ship, I was told.”

“Well, that’s not a wonderful bit of news to tell the Lord Mayor about. These warm nights many folks like a row on the river. It freshens ’em up and helps ’em to sleep. I reckon all the watermen were busy, and Mr. Slocum took the first boat that was handy.”

“I don’t think so. The boat seemed to be waiting for him.”

“Maybe he had business with the master of the Portugal ship—a matter of earrings for the crew, belike.”

“But he came down in a sneaking sort of way, as if he didn’t want to be seen.”

“Steady, my lad; don’t you go for to be too sharp, getting fancies into your head. It’s none of your business, what Mr. Slocum does; and if he didn’t wish to be seen, he won’t thank you for talking about it. So take my advice and keep your mouth shut.”

CHAPTER THE THIRD

THE ASSAULT

Next day, when Martin was preparing to put up the shutters of the shop in Cheapside, Mr. Slocum called him.

“Here, you Leake, you’re not to go home yet. There’s a parcel to be taken to an address in Middle Temple Lane. It must go without fail this evening, and you’ll have to wait for it.”

“Very well, sir,” said Martin.

“And on your way you can leave a letter in Whitefriars. That will save a special journey. Don’t loiter, mind. You’ll take a receipt for the parcel, and give it to me to-morrow.”

Martin was a little annoyed at being kept late, as he had promised to take Lucy on the river. But there was no help for it. He closed the shop, then went to the workrooms in Foster Lane, where the parcel would be made up.

Only one workman was there at his bench, giving the final polish to a goblet of silver-gilt. He appeared to Martin to dawdle over his job, and it was nearly dark before the parcel was ready.

Martin set off with it, going through St. Paul’s Churchyard and down Ludgate Hill. Then he turned to the left, towards the maze of lanes and alleys that constituted the district of Whitefriars. It was at a house in one of these lanes that he had to deliver the letter.

He walked quickly, for it was an unsavoury neighbourhood. Many of the houses were old and tumble-down; many of the people who lived in them were bad characters; and Martin, knowing that the parcel he carried was valuable, wished that he could have taken it by the more direct and open route along Fleet Street.

It was already so dark that he had some difficulty in finding the house at which the letter was to be delivered. In those days houses were not numbered; some were distinguished by signs that hung over the doorways, others had no distinguishing marks at all.

The address on Martin’s letter ran: “To Mr. Mumford, at his house over against the Golden Fleece Tavern.”

After making some inquiries, Martin discovered the house where Mr. Mumford lived, and rapped on the door. A window opened, and a hoarse voice asked, “Who’s there?”

“A letter from Mr. Slocum,” Martin replied.

A few moments afterwards the door was opened, and a rough-looking man, holding a candle, gave a hard look at Martin as he took the letter.

“All right; no answer,” he said, without breaking the seal.

Martin hurried away, wondering how the man knew there was no answer before he had read the letter.

He had got about half-way to his destination in Middle Temple Lane when two men rushed suddenly out of a narrow doorway and almost knocked him down. As he staggered, he felt a tug at the parcel he carried under his arm.

Tightening his grip upon it, he drew himself away, but next moment a sharp blow behind his knees threw him to the ground.

“It’s under him; quick about it,” said a hoarse voice very much like Mr. Mumford’s.

Martin had fallen on the parcel. He realised now that the men were trying to steal it, and he grasped it with both arms, and called aloud for help.

One of the men instantly clapped his hand over Martin’s mouth, while the other sought to wrench the parcel from his clinging arms. He kicked out with his feet, pressed with all his weight upon the parcel, and desperately resisted the man’s attempt to turn him over on his back.

But his assailant was a man of brawn. The struggle was hopeless. As Martin was heaved violently over, his mouth was released for a moment from the clutching hand, and he let out a piercing cry. A heavy shoe kicked him; once more he was stifled; but his cry had been heard; there was an answering shout and the clatter of feet on the cobblestones down the street.

The ruffians made one more attempt to wrest the parcel away. Failing, they kicked him again, and made off just in time to escape the sturdy watermen who had rushed to the spot.

“Why, it’s young Master Leake,” said one of them, lifting him from the ground. “What’s amiss?”

Bruised and breathless, Martin told his story.

“They didn’t get my parcel,” he concluded. “But it’s ruined, crushed; look at it. It’s no good my going on. I must take it back.”

“And we’ll see you safe,” said the watermen.

Escorted by his rescuers, Martin returned to the shop in Cheapside, and gave the parcel into the hands of the housekeeper. Then, his aching body supported between his two friends, he walked slowly homeward.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH

MARTIN LOSES HIS JOB

The moment Martin entered the shop next day Mr. Slocum pounced on him.

“Here, you Leake, come here,” he cried. “What do you mean by it? What have you got to say for yourself, eh? A pretty messenger you are! Look at this goblet; scratched, dented, absolutely ruined! Who’s to pay for the damage? Tell me that.”

“Truly I am sorry, sir,” said Martin; “but it was not my fault. I was set upon and knocked down by two ruffians. But for some watermen who came up I should have lost the goblet altogether.”

“Watermen, you say. Did they chase the footpads?”

“No, sir; the men ran away at once.”

“You’d know them again, I suppose?”

“I’m afraid not. It was nearly dark, and they attacked me so suddenly that I hadn’t time to get much of a look at them. But I did see that one of them had a big scar across his forehead, just above the eye.”

“And where did this happen?”

“A little way beyond Mr. Mumford’s, sir, just after I had given him your letter.”

“And you mean to tell me you were stupid enough to carry a costly goblet into that nest of rogues?”

“You told me to, sir.”

“I did not.”

“Indeed, sir, you said I was to take Mr. Mumford’s letter on my way, and that meant——”

“Don’t contradict me! You were a careless young dog; went meandering along, I dare say, with your nose in the air and your eyes on the stars. You are not to be trusted. If anything of the sort happens again, you and I will say good-bye, Master Leake. Get your broom and sweep the floor.”

Mr. Slocum went to his little room at the back, and Martin set about his work, smarting under a sense of injustice. He had simply done as he was told, and it was unfair to be blamed for what could not have been foreseen. Who would have guessed that anyone would attack a boy carrying a small parcel?

To add to his annoyance, the ’prentices began to bait him.

“A likely story,” said one. “You made it all up.”

“Of course he did,” said another. “Butter-fingers! Dropped the parcel; a horse gave it a kick, and he tells this cock-and-bull story to explain the damage.”

Martin went on sweeping, saying nothing, though his ears began to burn.

“Look at him blushing,” jeered the first. “His name ought to be Molly.”

Martin threw down his broom and sprang at his tormentor, a big, hulking fellow half a head taller. They grappled; Martin wrenched himself out of the other’s grip and rushed at him with clenched fists.

They fought almost without sound, fearing to draw Mr. Slocum from his den. The ’prentice was content at first to ward off the blows that Martin rained on him, and the scornful smile on his face only fed the smaller boy’s rage.

So intent were they upon the fight that neither noticed the entry of a well-dressed elderly gentleman. He stood looking on with a smile until, scuffling and swaying, the boys lurched against him, the ’prentice treading on his toes.

At this moment Mr. Slocum came out of his room and, rushing down the shop, gave Martin a smart clout on the side of his head.

“I beg a thousand pardons, sir,” he said to the customer. “This is a troublesome young rascal; I have already had to admonish him this morning, and——”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Slocum!” said the gentleman, smiling. “Boys will be boys. I admire the youngster’s pluck, and as for your admonishments, I fancy they are due rather to the other for fighting one so much smaller than himself. Besides, the lout trod on my toes, confound him!”

“I am shocked, sir, deeply pained,” said Mr. Slocum, glaring at the two boys. “Get away to your work; I will deal with you presently.”

Martin could not help watching the pleasant red-faced gentleman who had taken his part. He noticed how humble Mr. Slocum’s attitude was to the customer, and how respectfully he spoke.

“I wonder who he is?” Martin thought, and the gentleman’s features remained fixed in his memory.

When the customer had finished his business and departed, Mr. Slocum turned to Martin and, speaking in his usual harsh, overbearing way, said:

“You disgrace this establishment! Mind you this: if I catch you fighting here again I shall dismiss you on the spot!”

Martin made no protest, but he felt the injustice of his employer’s treatment, and wished more than ever that he was free to find a place as ship’s boy.

The very next day matters came to a head.

Early in the afternoon Martin was surprised to see enter the shop the old Frenchman who lived above the Gollops. At the moment he was polishing some silver plate in the back premises, along with two of the ’prentices. The third was behind the counter, and the Frenchman asked him, in his queer broken English, if he might see Mr. Slocum.

The ’prentice went into Mr. Slocum’s office, and, returning in a few moments, bade the visitor, not too politely, to follow him. The door of the office was closed behind him.

“What’s old Froggy want now?” said one of the ’prentices.

Martin looked at the speaker in surprise. He had not himself seen Mounseer in the shop before, but evidently this was not his first visit.

“I’d like to know,” replied his opponent of the previous day. “I wonder he dares to show himself in a respectable shop. His clothes aren’t fit for a scarecrow.”

Martin flushed. The Frenchman was his friend, a kindly, courteous, dignified gentleman, and he disliked to hear him criticised. It was true, Martin had to admit, now that his attention had been called to him, that his clothes were shabby; but they were well made, and of good quality. For the first time Martin asked himself whether the old man was very poor.

“I wonder where he lives,” the first ’prentice went on. “He’s never had anything sent home, has he?”

“Not that I know of,” was the answer. “I dare say he lives in some filthy cellar and feeds on rats and mice. He’s come a-begging, I should think; but he won’t get much out of old Slocum.”

Martin had been growing more and more indignant, and could remain silent no longer.

“Let me tell you the French gentleman is a friend of mine, and lives in my house,” he blurted out.

“Oh, indeed! A friend of yours, is he? And you and he live in the same cellar, I suppose, and share the vermin? I’m not surprised.”

“He doesn’t live in a cellar. You’d better say no more about him; I won’t stand it.”

“I’ll say what I like without asking you. He’s a miserable old scarecrow of a foreigner, and we don’t want people like him in London. He would make a good guy for the Fifth of November. I’d like to light some crackers under him and see him jump.”

This was more than Martin could stand. Dropping the salver he was polishing, he rushed at the ’prentice with such impetuosity that the boy lost his balance and fell. Up again in an instant, he closed with Martin, and, forgetting everything else, the two began to fight in the narrow space behind the counter.

“Look out!” warned the ’prentice looking on.

But the warning came too late. They lurched against one of the glass-cases containing jewellery. There was a crash. Splinters of glass fell all about the floor, the door of Mr. Slocum’s den flew open, and Mr. Slocum himself, pale with anger, dashed out, followed by the old Frenchman.

“You again, you young villain!” roared the goldsmith.

He caught Martin by the ear, lugged him to the door, and shot him into the street with a parting kick.

“Don’t you dare to show your face here again,” he cried, “or I’ll thrash you black and blue.”

CHAPTER THE FIFTH

THE NOISE IN THE NIGHT

Martin picked himself up, rubbed the mud from his clothes, and without giving another look at Mr. Slocum or the shop, set off on the way home.

“I’m glad to be out of it,” he thought; “but what shall I do now to earn some money?”

He had taken only a few steps when he heard his name called from behind. Turning, he saw Mounseer hurrying after him, and stood still until the Frenchman had caught him up.

“I see it,” said the old gentleman. “I ask, what is the matter?”

“I am dismissed, sir; that is all,” Martin replied, as they walked on.

“Dismissed! But yes; does the Englishman dismiss with violence? I do not understand.”

“Mr. Slocum was angry. I was fighting one of the ’prentices.”

“Ah, ah, fighting; what you call the box,” said the Frenchman, smiling. “That is what the English like, I think. It is not then a reason to dismiss.”

“I fought yesterday, and Mr. Slocum threatened to dismiss me if I did it again.”

“Ah! That is another thing. To fight once, yes; but to fight a second time when the master forbids, that is disobedience, also it is folly. What was the subject of the quarrel? I may ask?”

“The fellow was saying things about——”

Martin pulled himself up. He could not hurt the old gentleman’s feelings by repeating the ill-natured sneers at his appearance.

“You do not tell, eh? Well, I ask no more. You are young, Martin; as you grow older you will know that fighting is not for always; you must choose the proper time. Without doubt, Mr. Slocum is a hard man; but it is reasonable he think his place of business is not the right place, nor the hours of business the right time, for the practice of the box.”

Martin ruefully agreed that his friend was right.

“But come, then,” Mounseer went on, noticing his downcast look. “Do not be down in dumps; that is what you say, eh? To fight is no disgrace, if the cause is good. To be dismissed, that is bad, certainly; but I think you will soon find other employment.”

The Frenchman’s confidence was not shared by Dick Gollop and his wife when Martin explained the reason of his early return. In applying for a new situation he would need a reference, and it would be hopeless to look for a recommendation from Mr. Slocum.

“What I say is, go straight to Mr. Greatorex,” said Susan. “That Slocum is a wicked tyrant, that’s what he is, and Mr. Greatorex ought to know about him.”

“Nonsense, Sue!” said her husband. “The boy disobeyed orders; that’s mutiny, and Mr. Greatorex wouldn’t override his manager. Martin won’t tell what he was fighting about, but says he isn’t ashamed of it. There’s a mystery somewhere, and I don’t like it. He must look for another job, and I hope he’ll get one.”

Late that night, when Dick Gollop was out on his round as constable, and Lucy had gone to bed, Susan was stitching a rent in one of Mounseer’s shirts.

“There! That’s done at last,” she said. “ ’Tis time Mounseer had a new shirt, I’m thinking. Deary me! I’m tired out after working all this broiling hot day, and I’m sure I don’t want to climb those stairs.”

“Let me take it up,” said Martin. “I’ll save your legs.”

“That’s kind of you. I promised the old gentleman he should have it to-night, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”

Martin took the shirt and left the room. The staircase was very dark, and he walked up slowly, feeling his way along the wall.

When he was about half-way up he heard a creaking on the landing above, opposite the Frenchman’s door. He halted, and, supposing that Mounseer himself had come out of his room to ask for his shirt, he was on the point of calling to him when he caught the sound of hurried but soft footfalls on the stairs higher up, and then of a door gently closed.

He went on again, reached Mounseer’s door, and knocked. At first there was no answer; but after knocking a second time he heard the sound of flint and steel in the room within, then a voice asking who was there, and at last a fumbling with the bolt.

“Ah! It is you, my young friend, with my shirt,” said the old gentleman, opening the door. “I had fallen asleep, and had to light my candle.”

“I thought I heard you on the stairs, sir,” said Martin.

“Oh no! I have not left my room. It is late, and time for your bed. Good-night. A thousand thanks!”

Martin returned to the basement, bade good-night to Susan, and went to bed. But he found it impossible to sleep. He lay tossing on his bed, worrying about the future, listening to the church clocks striking the hours.

It was some time after midnight when the stillness was broken by what seemed to be a low whistle from the patch of waste ground outside and a little above Martin’s window. The sound was not repeated, and Martin almost believed he was mistaken; but a few seconds later he was roused by another sound; a slight creaking, as if a window somewhere had been opened, then closed again.

On so hot a night anyone might open a window for air. It was the closing, after the whistle, that caused Martin to get up, go to his window and look out upon the waste ground. No one was in sight. There were no more sounds, and Martin went back to bed.

Just as he was at last dozing off to sleep he was roused by a slight sound in the house. In old buildings the stairs often creak without apparent cause, and Martin was not startled or disturbed. But a minute or two later he heard a louder sound, like wood breaking, and then shouts and the stamping of heavy feet.

Springing out of bed he rushed into the passage and up the stairs as quickly as he could in the dark. The noise appeared to be coming from the neighbourhood of Mounseer’s room. When he reached the landing he was hurled back against the wall by the impact of a heavy figure that seemed to have come through the open door.

Before he could recover his footing he heard someone stumbling down the stairs. He darted to the banisters and was just able to see a dark form rush along the passage and through the front door, which he banged after him.

“What is it? What ever is it?” cried Susan from the door of her room. Lucy shrieked with alarm and fear.

“Don’t worry,” Martin called. “He has gone.”

He went into the Frenchman’s room, and by the faint starlight he saw a scene that surprised him. In the middle of the floor stood the old gentleman, rapier in hand, his coat wrapped round his left arm, as duellists were accustomed to wear their cloaks. A chair was overturned, and there was broken wood near the door.

“It is you, my young friend,” said the Frenchman, dropping his point. “Be good enough to light my candle.”

While Martin did this, Mounseer stood on guard, watching the door.

“He will not come back, I think,” he said. “I was disturbed by a sound outside my door; I sleep lightly, like all who have followed campaigns, and I had time to rise and seize my rapier before the bolt was forced and that wretch broke in.”

“Who was he, sir?” asked Martin.

“That I know not,” was the reply. “But he will remember me,” he added with a chuckle. “I felt my point get home, and the wretch was only saved because, as I pressed him, I stumbled over my chair. . . . But, pardon, monsieur, I did not observe you.”

In the doorway stood a tall man in a dressing-gown, his close-cropped poll and blue shaven cheeks giving him a strange appearance in the candlelight. It was Mr. Seymour, the new lodger who had recently taken the top floor.

“I would not intrude, sir,” said the newcomer politely, “but I heard the noise, and came to give neighbourly assistance if it were needed. I see that it was not.”

Mounseer bowed without saying anything.

“I am vastly relieved, sir,” Mr. Seymour went on. “Such an attack might have been dangerous to one of your years. The city is infested with rogues, but one might expect to be safe with a constable in the house.”

“The constable is not in the house at night, sir,” said the Frenchman drily. “I thank you for your benevolent intention; the danger is past, and I would not keep you from your bed.”

His bow as he said this could only be taken as a courteous dismissal, and Mr. Seymour bowed himself out. Martin guessed from the expression of Mounseer’s face that he did not like his neighbour.

“Now, my friend Martin, please me by returning to your bed,” said the old gentleman. “I will barricade my door; they will not disturb me again.”

Martin heard the clocks strike two before he fell asleep. And it was only in his last waking moment that he remembered having heard creaking stairs earlier that night near Mounseer’s room.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH

MARTIN’S PASSENGER

Martin spent all the next day in a fruitless search for work. Either no one wanted a boy, or the few that had places open would not engage a boy who had been dismissed for fighting.

In the evening, tired and dejected, Martin was walking homeward along the waterside. Glancing towards the stairs where he had seen Mr. Slocum embark on the foreigner’s boat, he noticed two small boys bending down over a boat that was moored to an iron ring. A third boy stood half-way up the stairs, evidently keeping watch.

While Martin was still some distance off, the two boys rose and ran up to their companion, smiling and pointing. Then all three climbed the remaining steps and darted away.

Martin could not help smiling at the mischievous little fellows. They had untied the painter, and set the boat adrift on the stream. It was now floating down on the swift-running tide.

By the time it came opposite Martin it was already a dozen yards from the shore. To his surprise he saw that it was not empty, as he had supposed. In the bottom lay a dark bearded man with a red cap and an orange jersey—the same man as Martin had seen at the same spot two or three days before. He was fast asleep, just as he had been then. Neither the action of the mischievous boys nor the motion of the stream had awakened him.

“Hi! hi!” shouted Martin, fearing that the man might come to grief if the boat struck against some larger vessel lower down.

But his cries did not awaken the sleeper, and Martin ran on to the stairs; there was usually a boat belonging to one of his watermen friends moored on the farther side; he would put off in her and catch up with the drifting boat before she came to harm. But there was no boat at hand.

“Well, never mind,” said Martin to himself. “I can’t help the sleepy-head. I dare say he’ll be seen from some wherry or lighter. How strange that he should be here again!”

He sat down with his back against the stone post, and idly watched the boat as it rapidly drifted downstream. In a few minutes two men came from behind the head of the stairs, and grumbled at the absence of the watermen. Then one appeared, rowing his wherry from the opposite shore. The men hailed him; he pulled in to the foot of the stairs, took on the impatient passengers, and rowed away again, towards the city.

The dusk was gathering, and Martin was about to rise and go home when he heard footsteps on the other side of him, and a voice say, angrily,

“The boat is not here!”

“I can’t wait,” said another voice, which Martin recognised at once as Mr. Slocum’s. Instinctively he drew farther back into the shadow of the post. “It would not be safe. You must hire a waterman.”

“There isn’t one to be seen,” said the first speaker. “There never is when you want one.”

“No doubt one will come in a minute or two,” said Mr. Slocum. “Good-night.”

The speaker had been hidden from Martin by the post. He heard Mr. Slocum hurry away; then the other man came in sight and walked down the steps. Under his arm he carried a small box.

“Old Slocum here again,” thought Martin. “It’s very strange.”

He was now so much interested that he decided to wait and see what happened. The man was tall and swarthy, with a big red nose, and a beard as black as the foreign seaman’s. As he sat on the stairs he muttered to himself.

After a while a heavily-laden wherry approached from upstream. It contained several passengers, laughing and singing noisily, and when they disembarked and mounted the stairs Martin saw that they carried baskets, and guessed that they were picknickers returning from a jaunt to Chelsea or Battersea. The waterman was Jack Boulter, a friend of his.

The waiting stranger called to Boulter, demanding to be taken to Deptford.

“Not me; not to-night,” said the waterman. “I’ve been out all day. I’m going home.”

“But you must take me, I say,” the stranger protested. He raised his voice, and Martin was surprised at a change in his accent. With Mr. Slocum he had spoken like an Englishman, but now his utterance was exactly that of a foreigner.

“What you say don’t matter,” returned Boulter, proceeding to tie up his boat. “I won’t stir out again for no man.”

The stranger began to plead and coax and threaten, but to all his excited words Boulter turned a deaf ear. Some impulse prompted Martin to rise and walk down to the bottom of the stairs.

“I say, Boulter, let me take him to Deptford,” he said.

“It’s you, young master,” said Boulter. “Well, you’ve rowed my wherry time and again, and I don’t mind if you do, so long as you promise to tie her up when you get back.”

“Ah! You are kind. You are a friend,” said the foreigner. He produced a shilling, and was handing it to Martin when Boulter reached forward and took the coin.

“Thank’ee,” he said. “Young master will take ’ee quite safe, and I’ll get along to the Pig and Whistle.”

In another minute Martin was pulling the wherry out into mid-stream. The passenger sat in silence upon the stern thwart, still grasping his box.

There was now little traffic on the river. Here and there near the banks barges were moored, and the spars of larger vessels were outlined against the glooming sky. Glancing frequently over his shoulder Martin steered a course clear of obstructions, and in no long time came within sight of the Deptford shipyards.

Presently the passenger, who had not spoken a word, motioned Martin to land him at a jetty jutting out from a quay along the wall of a house overhanging the river. It had the appearance of an empty warehouse.

Martin was pulling round when the man changed his mind.

“No, not there,” he said. “Beyond; farther: at the stairs of Deptford.”

Martin sculled on, feeling that there was something mysterious about his passenger. He seemed anxious, or excited.

The wherry was almost opposite to the Deptford stairs when a cry broke from the passenger’s lips. Martin glanced round, and saw a boat approaching swiftly. It contained a single man, pulling hard against the tide.

Martin’s passenger stood up, and shouted angrily a few words in a foreign tongue, which Martin could not understand. The man ceased rowing, and turned his head, and Martin recognised him as the foreign seaman whom he had seen a little while before asleep in the drifting craft. Next moment he swung his boat round and rowed rapidly towards the entrance of the repairing yard.

A few minutes later Martin landed his passenger at the foot of the stairs. The man seemed to be in too great a hurry even to thank him. He sped up the stairs and disappeared.

“I’ll have a little rest before I go back,” thought Martin.

He tied up the boat and strolled along by the edge of the repairing dock. Only one vessel lay there, a three-master brig without her mainmast, and it flashed into Martin’s memory that the waterman had told him of a Portugal ship that had come in for repairs.

“Is that a Portugal vessel?” he asked a man who was lounging near by.

“Ay, Portugal she is,” was the reply. “Dismasted by a Frenchman in the Channel. She’s not so foreign-looking as some Portugal ships I’ve seen, but her crew—why, bless your life, they’re as pretty a set of cut-throats as you’ve ever set eyes on.”

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH

A BLOW IN THE DARK

Martin found himself to be taking a rather unusual interest in this Portugal ship. It was impossible in the dusk to see her lines clearly; indeed, she was lying so low in the dock that even in the daylight one could not have obtained a good view of her. And the shipwrights’ work being over for the day, there was nothing going on upon her deck.

What interested Martin was not so much the vessel herself as the persons with whom she seemed to be connected. There was the foreign seaman whom he had twice seen waiting at the foot of the stairs. There was Mr. Slocum, who had embarked on that seaman’s boat. And now there was this third man, who had come with Mr. Slocum to the stairs, who spoke like an Englishman and also like a foreigner, and who was evidently very well known to the sleepy-headed seaman.

“There’s some mystery about all this,” Martin said to himself. “Mr. Slocum said it wasn’t safe for him to wait about at the stairs. Why? What reason can he have for coming or sending to this Portugal ship at all? Has she jewels or plate among her cargo, and he’s buying them? But why should he do it secretly?”

It was quite clear that he would not get answers to his questions by staring at the vessel. Two or three swarthy men in outlandish costumes were now moving about the deck: he heard their strange voices, so unlike the sing-song of English sailors. The lighting of a lamp reminded him that black night would soon lie upon the river.

“It’s time to be off,” he thought, and, turning about, he walked back without hurry to his boat, cast her off, and began to pull out into mid-stream.

The tide was now slack, just on the turn, and he was glad that he would not have to row against the current.

He had taken no more than half a dozen strokes when the silence was broken by loud shouts from the direction of the repairing yard. Turning his head, he saw a small figure in the act of diving into the river from a little jetty at the angle of the yard, and behind him a number of much taller forms rushing along as if in pursuit.

It was so nearly dark that all these figures were only just visible. But in a moment Martin was able to see a black head and two splashing arms on the surface of the water. The swimmer was making straight across towards the opposite bank.

He was seen also by the men on the jetty. With cries of excitement they dashed back to the shore, and ran towards a boat that was drawn up on the mud.

Martin had ceased rowing; his interest in the Portugal ship was whetted anew, for surely those excitable men were foreigners from that vessel. Who was the fugitive?

As he rested on his oars he noticed that the swimmer had suddenly changed his course, and was coming with swift over-hand strokes straight for the boat. Meanwhile, the pursuers had hauled their boat off the mud, got afloat, and were now pulling hard in the same direction.

Martin felt a throb of excitement as he watched the chase. By this time he realised that the fugitive was swimming to him for help, and he checked the motion of his boat, which had been drifting slowly on the turning tide, and edged it towards the swimmer.

Next moment a hand shot out of the water and grasped the gunwale. The second hand followed. Then a husky, spluttering voice whispered:

“Take me in, quick! They will catch me.”

Martin was thrilled when he saw that the speaker was a boy, a little younger than himself, as he guessed. Without reasoning, acting on a natural impulse, he shipped his oars, and trimming the boat as well as he could by lying across it, managed with some difficulty to help the little fellow to clamber in.

“Quick! They will catch me,” gasped the boy again as he sank exhausted into the bottom of the boat.

In a moment Martin had the oars in the rowlocks and began to pull with all his strength. He caught sight of the pursuing boat forging out of the darkness, and the shouts of the men aboard her told him that they had seen what had happened to the boy.

Spurred on by the angry menace of their voices, he bent to his oars with a will. He had seen a look of terror in the boy’s eyes as he climbed into the boat, and afterwards he remembered, what he had not consciously observed at the time, that the boy’s skin was dark, though his features were not those of a Negro.

But Martin did not look at the boy as he lay in the boat. His whole attention was concentrated on the pursuers. His heart sank; they were gaining on him. How could it be otherwise? The Thames wherry of those days was a heavy lumbering craft, and a half-grown boy could not hope to outrow the two men who were urging their boat along with strong, sweeping strokes.

He heard encouraging cries from the third man who sat in the stern, and as the pursuing boat gained on him yard by yard, he saw with a strange thrill, in spite of the darkness, that this man was the mysterious bearded passenger whom he had rowed down the river an hour before.

Without knowing why, this recognition urged him to still greater exertions. But the strain was telling upon his muscles; already they were aching almost to numbness. Yet he rowed on and on, doggedly, not dropping his sculls until the other boat sheered up alongside, and one of the men, swinging round the butt of his oar, dealt Martin a blow that sent him backward off his thwart. His head struck the thwart behind, and he lay doubled up between the two, stunned.