THE BANDY-LEGGED MAN
Until night fell they sought the town over for a trace of Cicely; but
all to no avail. The second day likewise.
The third day passed, and still there were no tidings. Master
Shakspere’s face grew very grave, and Nick’s heart sickened till he
quite forgot that he was going home.
But on the morning of the fourth day, which chanced to be the 1st of
May, as he was standing in the door of a printer’s stall in St. Paul’s
Churchyard, watching the gaily dressed holiday crowds go up and down,
while Robin Dexter’s apprentices bound white-thorn boughs about the
brazen serpent overhead, he spied the bandy-legged man among the rout
that passed the north gate by St. Martin’s le Grand.
He had a yellow ribbon in his ear, and wore a bright plum-colored cloak,
at sight of which Nick cried aloud, for it was the very cloak which
Master Gaston Carew wore when he first met him in the Warwick road. The
rogue was making for the way which ran from Cheapside to the river, and
was walking very fast.
“Master Shakspere! Master Shakspere!” Nick called out. But Master
Shakspere was deep in the proofs of a newly published play, and did
not hear.
The yellow ribbon fluttered in the sun—was gone behind the churchyard
wall.
“Quick, Master Shakspere! quick!” Nick cried; but the master-writer
frowned at the inky page; for the light in the printer’s shop was dim,
and the proof was very bad.
The ribbon was gone down the river-way—and with it the hope of finding
Cicely. Nick shot one look into the stall. Master Shakspere, deep in his
proofs, was deaf to the world outside. Nick ran to the gate at the top
of his speed. In the crowd afar off a yellow spot went fluttering like a
butterfly along a country road. Without a single second thought, he
followed it as fast as his legs could go.
Twice he lost it in the throng. But the yellow patch bobbed up again in
the sunlight far beyond, and led him on, and on, and on, a breathless
chase, down empty lanes and alley-ways, through unfrequented courts,
among the warehouses and wharf-sheds along the river-front, into the
kennels of Billingsgate, where the only sky was a ragged slit between
the leaning roofs. His heart sank low and lower as they went, for only
thieves and runagates who dared not face the day in honest streets were
gathered in wards like these.
In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mackerel-heads and
herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits of whitebait stood
fermenting in the sun, the bandy-legged man turned suddenly into a dingy
court, and when Nick reached the corner of the entry-way was gone as
though the earth had swallowed him.
Nick stopped dismayed, and looked about, His forehead was wet and his
breath was gone. He had no idea where they were, but it was a dismal
hole. Six forbidding doorways led off from the unkempt court, and a
rotting stairway sagged along the wall. A crop-eared dog, that lay in
the sun beside a broken cart, sprang up with its hair all pointing to
its head, and snarled at him with a vicious grin. “Begone, thou cur!” he
cried, and let drive with a stone. The dog ran under the cart, and
crouched there barking at him.
Through an open door beyond there came a sound of voices as of people in
some further thoroughfare. Perchance the bandy-legged man had passed
that way? He ran across the court, and up the steps; but came back
faster than he went, for the passageway there was blind and black, a
place unspeakable for dirt, and filled with people past description. A
woman peered out after him with red eyes blinking in the sun. “Ods
bobs!” she croaked, “a pretty thing! Come hither, knave; I want the
buckle off thy cloak.”
Nick, shuddering, started for the street. But just as he reached the
entry-port a door in the courtyard opened, and the bandy-legged man came
out with a bag upon his back, leading Cicely by the hand.
Seeing Nick, he gave a cry, believing himself pursued, and made for the
open door again; but almost instantly perceiving the boy to be alone,
slammed shut the door and followed him instead, dragging Cicely over the
stones, and shouting hoarsely, “Stop there! stop!”
Nick’s heart came up in his very throat. His legs went water-weak. He
ran for the open thoroughfare without once looking back. Yet while he
ran he heard Cicely cry out suddenly in pain, “Oh, Gregory, Gregory,
thou art hurting me so!” and at the sound the voice of Gaston Carew rang
like a bugle in his ears: “Thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?” He stopped
as short as if he had butted his head against a wall, whirled on his
heel, stood fast, though he was much afraid; and standing there, his
head thrown back and his fists tight clenched, as if some one had struck
him in the face, he waited until they came to where he was. “Thou
hulking, cowardly rogue!” said he to the bandy-legged man.
But the bandy-legged man caught him fast by the arm, and hurried on into
the street, scanning it swiftly up and down. “Two birds with one stone,
by hen!” he chuckled, when he saw that the coast was clear. “They’ll
fetch a pretty penny by and by.”
Poor Cicely smiled through her tears at Nick. “I knew thou wouldst come
for me soon,” said she. “But where is my father?”
“He’s dead as a herring,” snarled Gregory.
“That’s a lie,” said Nick; “he is na dead.”
“Don’t call me liar, knave—by hen, I’ll put a stopper on thy voice!”
“Thou wilt na put a stopper on a jug!” cried Nick, his heart so hot for
Cicely that he quite forgot himself. “I’d sing so well without a
voice—it would butter thy bread for thee! Loose my arm, thou rogue.”
“Not for a thousand golden crowns! I’m no tom-noddy, to be gulled. And,
hark ’e, be less glib with that ‘rogue’ of thine, or I’ll baste thy back
for thee.”
“Oh, don’t beat Nick!” gasped Cicely.
“Do na fret for me,” said Nick; “I be na feared of the cowardly rogue!”
Crack! the man struck him across the face. Nick’s eyes flashed hot as a
fire-coal. He set his teeth, but he did not flinch. “Do na thou strike
me again, _thou rogue!_” said he.
As he spoke, on a sudden his heart leaped up and his fear was utterly
gone. In its place was a something fierce and strange—a bitter
gladness, a joy that stung and thrilled him like great music in the
night. A tingling ran from head to foot; the little hairs of his flesh
stood up; he trampled the stones as he hurried on. In his breast his
heart was beating like a bell; his breath came hotly, deep and slow; the
whole world widened on his gaze. Oh, what a thing is the heart of a boy!
how quickly great things are done therein! One instant, put him to the
touch—the thing is done, and he is nevermore the same. Like a keen,
cold wind that blows through a window in the night, life’s courage had
breathed on Nick Attwood’s heart; the _man_ that slept in the heart of
the boy awoke and was aware. The old song roared in Nick’s ears:
Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world,
Round the world, round the world;
John Hawkins fought the “Victory,”
And we ha’ beaten Spain!
Whither they were going he did not know. Whither they were going he did
not care. He was English: this was England still! He set his teeth and
threw back his shoulders. “I be na feared of him!” said he.
“But my father will come for us soon, won’t he, Nick?” faltered Cicely.
“Eigh! just don’t he wish that he might!” laughed Goole.
“Oh, ay,” said she, and nodded bravely to herself; “he may be very busy
now, and so he cannot come. But presently he will come for me and fetch
me home again.” She gave a joyous little skip. “To fetch me home
again—ay, surely, my father will come for me anon.”
A lump came up in Nick Attwood’s throat. “But what hath he done to thee,
Cicely, and where is thy pretty gown?” he asked, as they hurried on
through the crooked way; for the gown she wore was in rags.
Cicely choked down a sob. “He hath kept me locked up in a horrible
place, where an old witch came in the night and stole my clothes away.
And he says that if money doth not come for me soon he will turn me out
to starve.”
“To starve? Nay, Cicely; I will na leave thee starve. I’ll go with thee
wherever he taketh thee; I’ll fend for thee with all my might and main,
and none shall harm thee if I can help. So cheer up—we will get away!
Thou needst na gripe me so, thou rogue; I am going wherever she goes.”
[Illustration: ““DO NA THOU STRIKE ME AGAIN, _THOU ROGUE!_” SAID NICK”]
“I’ll see that ye do,” growled the bandy-legged man. “But take the other
hand of her, thou jackanapes, and fetch a better pace than this—I’ll
not be followed again.”
His tone was bold, but his eyes were not; for they were faring through
the slums toward Whitechapel way, and the hungry crowd eyed Nick’s silk
cloak greedily. One burly rascal with a scar across his face turned back
and snatched at it. For his own safety’s sake, the bandy-legged man
struck up into a better thoroughfare, where he skulked along like a fox
overtaken by dawn, fearing to meet some dog he knew.
“Oh, Gregory, go slow!” pleaded Cicely, panting for breath, and
stumbling over the cobblestones. Goole’s only answer was a scowl. Nick
trotted on sturdily, holding her hand, and butting his shoulder against
the crowd so that she might not be jostled; for the press grew thick and
thicker as they went. All London was a-Maying, and the foreigners from
Soho, too. Up in the belfries, as they passed, the bells were clanging
until the whole town rang like a smithy on the eve of war, for madcap
apprentices had the ropes, and were ringing for exercise.
Thicker and thicker grew the throng, as though the sea were sweeping
through the town. Then, at the corner of Mincing Lane, where the
cloth-workers’ shops were thick, all at once there came an uproarious
din of men’s voices singing together:
“Three merry boys, and three merry boys,
And three merry boys are we,
As ever did sing in a hempen string
Beneath the gallows-tree!”
And before the bandy-legged man could chance upon a doorway in which to
stand out of the rush, they were pressed against the wall flat as cakes
by a crowd of bold apprentices in holiday attire going out to a wager of
archery to be shot in Finsbury Fields.
At first all Nick could see was legs: red legs, yellow legs, blue legs,
green legs, long legs, strong legs—in truth, a very many of all sorts
of legs, all stepping out together like a hundred-bladed shears; for
these were the Saddlers of Cheapside and the Cutters of Mincing Lane,
tall, ruddy-faced fellows, all armed with clubs, which they twirled and
tossed and thwacked one another with in sport. Some wore straw hats with
steeple-crowns, and some flat caps of green and white, or red and
orange-tawny. Some had long yew bows and sheaves of arrows decked with
garlands; and they were all exceedingly daubed in the face with dripping
cherry-juice and with cheese, which they munched as they strode along.
“What, there, Tom Webster, I say,” cried one, catching sight of Cicely’s
face, “here is a Queen o’ the May for thee!”
His broad-shouldered comrade stopped in the way, and with him all the
rest. “My faith, Jem Armstrong, ’tis the truth, for once in thy life!”
quoth he, and stared at Cicely. Her cheeks were flushed, and her panting
red lips were fallen apart so that her little white teeth showed
through. Her long, dark lashes cast shadow circles under her eyes. Her
curly hair in elfin locks tossed all about her face, and through it was
tied a crimson ribbon, mocking the quick color of the blood which came
and went beneath her delicate skin. “My faith!” cried Tommy Webster,
“her face be as fair as a K in a copy-book! Hey, bullies, what? let’s
make her queen!”
“A queen?” “What queen?” “Where is a queen?” “I granny! Tom Webster hath
catched a queen!” “Where is she, Tom?” “Up with her, mate, and let a
fellow see.”
“Hands off, there!” snarled the bandy-legged man.
“Up with her, Tom!” cried out the strapping fellow at his back. “A queen
it is; and a right good smacking toll all round—I have not bussed a
maid this day! Up with her, Tom!”
“Stand back, ye rogues, and let us pass!”
But alas and alack for the bandy-legged man! He could not ruffle and
swagger it off as Gaston Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was
harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack.
“Stand back, ye rogues!” he cried again.
“Rogues? Rogues? Who calls us rogues? Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his
crown!”
“Good masters,” faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve,
“I meant ye no offense. I pr’ythee, do not keep a father and his
children from their dying mother’s bed!”
“Nay—is that so?” asked Webster, sobering instantly “Here, lads, give
way—their mother be a-dying.”
The crowd fell back. “Ah, sirs,” whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in
his face, “she’ll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!”
he muttered fiercely in Nick’s ear.
But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. “The fellow
lieth in his throat,” said he. “My mother is in Stratford town; and
Cicely’s mother is dead.”
“Thou whelp!” cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at
Nick, “I’ll teach thee to hold thy tongue.”
“Oh, no, ye won’t,” quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak
staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the
wall; “there is no school on holidays! Thou’lt teach nobody here to hold
his tongue but thine own self—and start at that straightway. Dost take
me?—say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what’s all the coil about? Hath this sweet
fellow kidnapped thee?”
“Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he
treats her very ill!”
“The little rascal lies,” sneered Goole, though his lips were the color
of lead; “I am her legal guardian!”
“What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!”
“Nay, nay,” Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; “her father’s nearest
friend, I said,—he gave her in my charge.”
“My father’s friend!” cried Cicely. “Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why,
he would not give my finger in thy charge.”
“He is the wiser daddy, then!” laughed Jemmy Armstrong, “for the fellow
hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face.”
The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but
still he put a bold front on. “Stand off,” said he, and tried to thrust
Tom Webster back. “Thou’lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a
lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods.”
“Why, fie for shame!” cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. “Nick
doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast
stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father’s house!”
“Good, sweetheart!” quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-legged man with a
curious snap in his honest eyes. “So the rascal hath stolen other things
than thee? I thought that yellow bow of his was tied tremendous high!
Why, mates, the dog is a branded rogue—that ribbon is tied through the
hole in his ear!”
Gregory Goole made a dash through the throng where the press was least.
Thump! went Tommy Webster’s club, and a little puff of dust went up from
Gregory’s purple cloak. But he was off so sharply, and dodged with such
amazing skill, that most of the blows aimed at his head hummed through
the empty air, or thwacked some stout apprentice in the ribs as they all
went whooping after him. He was out of the press and away like a deer
down a covert lane between two shops ere one could say, “Jack, Robin’s
son,” and left the stout apprentices at every flying leap. So presently
they all gave over the chase, and came back with the bag he had dropped
as he ran; and were so well pleased with themselves for what they had
done that they gave three cheers for all the Cloth-workers and Saddlers
in London, and then three more for Cicely and Nick. They would no doubt
have gone right on and given three for the bag likewise, being strongly
in the humor of it; but “Hi, Tom Webster!” shouted one who could hardly
speak for cherries and cheese and puffing, “what’s gone with the queen
we’re to have so fast, and the toll that we’re to take?”
Tom Webster pulled at his yellow beard, for he saw that Cicely was no
common child, and of gentler birth than they. “I do not think she’ll
bide the toll,” said he, in half apology.
“What! is there anything to pay?” she asked with a rueful quaver in her
voice. “Oh, Nick, there is to pay!”
“We have no money, sirs,” said Nick; “I be very sorry.”
“If my father were here,” said Cicely, “he would give thee a handful of
silver; but I have not a penny to my name.” She looked up into Tom
Webster’s face. “But, sir,” said she, and laid her hand upon his arm,
“if ye care, I will kiss thee upon the cheek.”
“Why, marry come up! My faith!” quoth he, and suddenly blushed—to his
own surprise the most of all—“why, what? Who’d want a sweeter penny
for his pains?” But “Here—nay, nay!” the others cried; “ye’ve left us
out. Fair play, fair play!”
All Cicely could see was a forest of legs that filled the lane from wall
to wall, and six great fellows towering over her. “Why, sirs,” cried
she, confusedly, while her face grew rosy red, “ye all shall kiss my
hand—if—if—”
“If what?” they roared.
“If ye will but wipe your faces clean.”
At the shout of laughter they sent up the constable of the cloth-men’s
ward awoke from a sudden dream of war and bloody insurrection, and came
down Cheapside bawling, “Peace, in the name of the Queen!” But when he
found it was only the apprentices of Mincing Lane out Maying, he stole
away around a shop, and made as if it were some other fellow.
They took the humor of it like a jolly lot of bears, and all came
crowding round about, wiping their mouths on what came first, with a
lick and a promise,—kerchief, doublet, as it chanced,—laughing, and
shouldering each to be first. “Up with the little maid there, Tom!” they
roared lustily.
Cicely gave him both her hands, and—“Upsydaisy!”—she was on the top of
the corner post, where she stood with one hand on his brawny shoulder to
steady herself, like a flower growing by a wall, bowing gravely all
about, and holding out her hand to be kissed with as graceful an air as
a princess born, and withal a sweet, quaint dignity that abashed the
wildest there.
Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were not enough; but
Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so sharply over the pate, with “Soft, ye
loons, her hand!” that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were
out of his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish grin;
for Jemmy Armstrong’s love-pats would have cracked a hazelnut.
Some came again a second time. One came even a third. But Cicely knew
him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her hand behind her, saying, “Fie,
sir, thou art greedy!” Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in
the ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, “Quits! We’ll all be late
to the archery if we be not trotting on.”
Nick’s face fell at the merry shout of “Finsbury, Finsbury, ho!” “I dare
na try to take her home alone,” said he; “that rogue may lie in wait
for us.”
“Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?” cried Cicely; and with that she threw
her arms around Tom Webster’s neck. “Oh, take us with thee, sir—don’t
leave us all alone!”
Webster pulled his yellow beard. “Nay, lass, it would not do,” said he;
“we’ll be mad larks by evening. But there, sweetheart, don’t weep no
more! That rogue shall not catch thee again, I promise that.”
“Why, Tom,” quoth Armstrong, “what’s the coil? We’ll leave them at the
Boar’s Head Inn with sixpence each until their friends can come for
them. Hey, mates, up Great East Cheap!” And off they marched to the
Boar’s Head Inn.