Tom Moore Part 69

A murmur of admiring a.s.sent ran through the crowd. It would be much greater sport to beat so valiant a gentleman to death than to thrash a low-spirited coward such as they had antic.i.p.ated encountering. These worthy and unworthy denizens of poverty-stricken dwellings, for in the a.s.semblage there were both honest and dishonest, like most of their rank in society, were firm believers in the theory that fine clothes and a high-bred manner were reliable indications of a cowardly spirit and physical weakness. To so suddenly have their ideas on this subject proved incorrect was a surprise more startling than would be at first imagined.

Sweeny felt that his followers were wavering in their allegiance, and fearing lest further delay might result in a behavior on their part unsatisfactory to him personally, he gave a growl of wrath and rushed fiercely up the steps waving his cudgel. The gentleman calmly and skilfully kicked him in the mouth and sent him hurling backward down on the heads of his friends, bloodstained and well nigh insensible. This bit of battle decided the action of the mob, and, excited by the sight of their leader's blood, they pressed resolutely up the steps. It was quite impossible for the hunted gallant to beat back such a force as was now attacking him, and, fully realizing this, he made no such attempt.

Instead, he tore his cloak from about his shoulders and threw it over the heads of the foremost of his opponents, leaped quickly on the railing of the steps and sprang wildly and hopelessly towards the parallel flight which led to the front door of the adjacent house. He reached the rail with his hands, but his weight was too much for him when coupled with the terrible force with which his body struck the side of the steps, so, with a groan of despair, he fell in the areaway. He tumbled feet first on a grating leading to the cellar of the house, which gave way and precipitated him into the depths below, as his pursuers, mad with the excitement of the chase, rushed down the stairs from which he had made his daring leap. It looked as though it might go hard with the unknown gentleman, valiant and resourceful though he had proven himself.

_Chapter Twenty-Six_

_TOM MOORE'S SERVANT PROVES A FRIEND IN NEED_

Buster ate a hearty supper and fed Lord Castlereagh with the sc.r.a.ps.

This done, he was about to proceed with the dish-washing, a kind of toil for which he had a more than ordinary contempt and dislike, when the sound of shouting in the street attracted his attention.

For once in his life the boy had failed to ascertain the news of the neighborhood of that day, and as he had been absent when Mrs. Malone conveyed to his master the intelligence of Sweeny's purposed ambush of Jane's unknown swain, he had had no tidings concerning that important happening, so was not the active partic.i.p.ant in the adventure that he would otherwise have been. This being the case, he was quite at a loss to account for the sounds of tumult below.

"My heye!" he remarked to the bulldog, whose curiosity was similarly aroused, "wot a rump.u.s.s.in'. Who 's getting beat hor married, Hi wonders?"

Sticking his head out of the window, the boy could discern nothing down in the dark street. It was quite evident that the voices which had attracted his attention proceeded from one of the narrow lanes running at right angles to the larger thoroughfare on which the lodgings of Moore fronted.

"Somebody 's risin' a b.l.o.o.d.y hole row, your lordship. Well, we keeps hout of it this once, don't we?"

The bulldog gave a whine of dissent. He saw no reason for remaining quiet when such unexcelled opportunities for vigorous contention were being offered gratuitously below.

Buster shook his head sadly.

"Halas!" he observed in a melancholy tone. "That hole gladheateral spirit hof yourn his never horf tap. You h'are a blooming hole pugilist, that's wot you h'are. You horter be hashamed of yourself for wantin' to happropriate somebody else's private row."

Lord Castlereagh felt unjustly rebuked and retired to his favorite corner, apparently losing all interest in the hubbub, which continued below, growing gradually less noisy as though the cause were slowly departing from the immediate neighborhood. Suddenly the dog's quick ear detected an unwonted sound coming from the rooftops, and with a growl, spurred on by his still unsatisfied curiosity, he ran across the room to the window by which his master in the old days had been wont to evade the vigilance of Mrs. Malone. Buster followed him, and, looking across the undulating surface made by the irregular roofs,--a sort of architectural sea rendered choppy by uplifting ridge-poles and gables of various styles, cut into high waves and low troughs by the dissimilar heights of sundry buildings, with chimneys rising buoy-like from the billowy depths, which in the darkness were blended softly together by the mellowing and connecting shadows,--he saw the figure of a man emerge from the scuttle of a roof perhaps two hundred feet distant. At the same moment there came a howl of fury from the street below, which grew louder, as though the crowd from which it emanated were streaming back in the direction of Mrs. Malone's residence. The fugitive, for that he was such could not be doubted, beat a hurried retreat across the roofs, tripping, falling, crawling, but ever making progress and nearly always hidden from the point at which he had effected his entrance to the house-tops by the friendly shelter of intervening chimneys and gables.

All at once a burly form leaped out of the scuttle from which the first comer had emerged. This newly arrived individual carried a club and was followed out on the roof by half-a-dozen companions of the same ilk.

Straightening up to his full height, while gingerly balancing on the nearest ridgepole, the fellow caught a glimpse of their prey crawling up a steep roof quite a little distance further on towards the window from which Buster was now intently watching the chase.

"There he goes, lads. He is right in line with that tallest chimbley,"

bellowed the leader.

"Aye, aye! After him! After him!"

An answering howl came from the street, and, sliding, running and stumbling, the pursuers began to follow the fugitive across the housetops. Then they lost sight of him, and for a while completely baffled, searched in a scattered line, slowly advancing, investigating each possible hiding-place as they came to it, urged on by the growling of the mob patrolling the street below. Suddenly one of their number, the lad armed with the huge bottle, tripped over a broken clothesline and fell headlong into the V-shaped trough formed by the eaves of the two adjacent houses. He found himself rudely precipitated on the body of the hunted man, who had lain snugly concealed at the very bottom of the roof-made angle, but before he could do more than utter one choking scream, the fugitive, despairing of further concealment, silenced his discoverer with his fist, and with the rest of the pack in full cry at his heels, began again his wild flight over the roofs. Fortune favored him once more, and the band hunting him was forced for a second time to pause and scatter in close scrutiny of the ground over which the fleeing gallant had made his way. Then Buster saw a tall figure creep out of the gloom cast by a huge chimney, which, shadowing a roof near by, had enabled him to crawl undetected from the hiding-place that he had found beneath the eaves of an unusually tall building, near the house from the attic of which the boy was now excitedly tracing his line of flight.

Buster's sympathy was all with the fleeing man. To sympathize was to act, and having found the rope-ladder which used to serve his master as a means of exit by the window when prudence dictated such an evasion, he tumbled it out, at the same time attracting the hunted gentleman's attention with a friendly hiss.

"This w'y, sir, this w'y," whispered Buster, silencing the threatened outcry of Lord Castlereagh with a commanding gesture. "Keep low has you can till you gets 'ere. The big chimbley 'll keep 'em from seeing you till you 're safe hup, sir."

Crawling rapidly along on his hands and knees, the much-sought gentleman managed to gain the necessary distance without being discovered, and sheltered by the grim outlines of the huge chimney Buster had indicated, he climbed laboriously up the ladder to the window of Moore's attic.

The boy held out a welcoming hand and a.s.sisted him to enter. Once in, the stranger gave a sobbing sigh of relief, and groped his way to a chair. The moon, till now providentially bedimmed, came out from behind the froth of clouds and the light entering the window fell full on the new-comer's flushed face.

"Blow me!" cried the boy in astonishment. "Hif it hain't the Prince hof Wyles!"

_Chapter Twenty-Seven_

_THE POET REGAINS ROYAL FAVOR_

"You know me?"

"Hi just does, your 'Ighness," replied the boy, dragging up the ladder as he spoke.

This he deposited in its usual hiding-place before turning to his royal guest, who was still panting from the exertion of his flight.

"Put out the light," directed the Prince, pointing to the candles on the mantel.

"Ho, no, your 'Ighness. That 'd make them suspicious," dissented Buster.

"Perhaps you are right," said Wales, reflectively.

"Per'aps Hi his," admitted the boy. "Hi ain't hallus wrong, you know, your 'Ighness."

"What place is this, my lad?"

"This," replied Buster, grandiloquently, "his the palatial residence of the famous poet, Mr. Thomas Moore."

"Moore!" repeated the Prince in astonishment. "Fatality pursues me."

"Hif that's wot wuz harter you Hi don't wonder you cut stick," said the boy, cautiously peering out of the window.

"To while away a tedious evening I sometimes a.s.sume a disguise such as my present adornment and go out in search of adventures," said Wales, condescending to explain his present predicament.

"Yessir," said Buster, "Hi knows Jine Sweeny myself. You h'are the pusson Hi saw with 'er the hother night."

"Did you recognize me?"

"Not then, sir, your 'at wuz pulled too low."

"Perhaps you knew that a demonstration was being prepared in my honor this evening?"

"Not I, your 'Ighness. Ho law! but hit's lucky Hi saw you. They 'd likely have beat your 'ead horf you, your Majesty."

"That seemed to be their intention," a.s.sented Wales, "nor have they yet abandoned the idea, if I interpret their present activity correctly."

"Hif they manages to trice you 'ere, wot 'll we do?" demanded Buster, as the sounds on the roofs outside drew nearer.

"What would you suggest?" asked the Prince, quite calmly.

"You 'd 'ave to tell 'em who you are."

"Ah!" said Wales, doubtfully, "but would they believe me? Hardly, my good lad."