Читать книгу Martin of Old London - George Herbert Ely - Страница 5
ОглавлениеTHE 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.
