The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj, Arthur Quiller-Couch [books suggested by elon musk TXT] 📗

together with many of the first ladies and gentlemen of England, as the Prince Maurice, the lords Andover, Digby and Colepepper, my lady Thynne, Mistress Fanshawe, Mr. Secretary Nicholas, the famous Dr. Harvey, arm-in-arm with my lord Falkland (whose boots were splash'd with mud, he having ridden over from his house at Great Tew), and many such, all mix'd in this incredible tag-rag. Mistress Fanshawe, as I remember, was playing on a lute, which she carried always slung about her shoulders: and close beside her, a fellow impudently puffing his specific against the morbus campestris, which already had begun to invade us.

“Who'll buy?” he was bawling. “'Tis from the receipt of a famous Italian, and never yet failed man, woman, nor child, unless the heart were clean drown'd in the disease: the lest part of it good muscadine, and has virtue against the plague, smallpox, or surfeits!”

I was standing before this jackanapes, when I heard a stir in the crowd behind me, and another calling, “Who'll buy? Who'll buy?”

Turning, I saw a young man, very gaily dressed, moving quickly about at the far end of the Pig Market, and behind him an old lackey, bent double with the weight of two great baskets that he carried. The baskets were piled with books, clothes, and gewgaws of all kinds; and 'twas the young gentleman that hawked his wares himself. “What d'ye lack?” he kept shouting, and would stop to unfold his merchandise, holding up now a book, and now a silk doublet, and running over their merits like any huckster—but with the merriest conceit in the world.

And yet 'twas not this that sent my heart flying into my mouth at the sight of him. For by his curls and womanish face, no less than the amber cloak with the black bars, I knew him at once for the same I had seen yesterday among the dicers.

As I stood there, drawn this way and that by many reflections, he worked his way through the press, selling here and there a trifle from his baskets, and at length came to a halt in front of me.

“Ha!” he cried, pulling off his plumed hat, and bowing low, “a scholar, I perceive. Let me serve you, sir. Here is the 'History of Saint George,'” and he picked out a thin brown quarto and held it up; “written by Master Peter Heylin; a ripe book they tell me (though, to be sure, I never read beyond the title), and the price a poor two shillings.”

{Illustration: “A scholar, I perceive. Let me serve you sir?”—Page 30.}

Now, all this while I was considering what to do. So, as I put my hand in my pocket, and drew out the shillings, I said very slowly, looking him in the eyes (but softly, so that the lackey might not hear)——

“So thus you feed your expenses at the dice: and my shilling, no doubt, is for Luke Settle, as well as the rest.”

For the moment, under my look, he went white to the lips; then clapped his hand to his sword, withdrew it, and answered me, red as a turkey-cock——

“Shalt be a parson, yet, Master Scholar: but art in a damn'd hurry, it seems.”

Now, I had ever a quick temper, and as he turned on his heel, was like to have replied and raised a brawl. My own meddling tongue had brought the rebuff upon me: but yet my heart was hot as he walked away.

I was standing there and looking after him, turning over in my hand the “Life of Saint George,” when my fingers were aware of a slip of paper between the pages. Pulling it out, I saw 'twas scribbled over with writing and figures, as follows:—

“Mr. Anthony Killigrew, his acct for Oct. 25th, MDCXLII.—For herrings, 2d.; for coffie, 4d.; for scowring my coat, 6d.; at bowls, 5s. 10d.; for bleading me, 1s. 0d.; for ye King's speech, 3d.; for spic'd wine (with Marjory), 2s. 4d.; for seeing ye Rhinoceros, 4d.; at ye Ranter-go-round, 6 3/4d.; for a pair of silver buttons, 2s. 6d.; for apples, 2 1/2d.; for ale, 6d.; at ye dice, L17 5s.; for spic'd wine (again), 4s. 6d.”

And so on.

As I glanced my eye down this paper, my anger oozed away, and a great feeling of pity came over me, not only at the name of Anthony—the name I had heard spoken in the bowling-green last night—but also to see that monstrous item of L17 odd spent on the dice. 'Twas such a boy, too, after all, that I was angry with, that had spent fourpence to see the rhinoceros at a fair, and rode on the ranter-go-round (with “Marjory,” no doubt, as 'twas for her, no doubt, the silver buttons were bought). So that, with quick forgiveness, I hurried after him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

He stood by the entrance, counting up his money, and drew himself up very stiff.

“I think, sir,” said I, “this paper is yours.”

“I thank you,” he answered, taking it, and eyeing me. “Is there anything, besides, you wished to say?”

“A great deal, maybe, if your name be Anthony.”

“Master Anthony Killigrew is my name, sir; now serving under Lord Bernard Stewart in His Majesty's troop of guards.”

“And mine is Jack Marvel,” said I. — “Of the Yorkshire Marvels?”

“Why, yes; though but a shoot of that good stock, transplanted to Cumberland, and there sadly withered.”

“'Tis no matter, sir,” said he politely; “I shall be proud to cross swords with you.”

“Why, bless your heart!” I cried out, full of laughter at this childish punctilio; “d'ye think I came to fight you?”

“If not, sir”—and he grew colder than ever—“you are going a cursed roundabout way to avoid it.”

Upon this, finding no other way out of it, I began my tale at once: but hardly had come to the meeting of the two men on the bowling-green, when he interrupts me politely——

“I think, Master Marvel, as yours is like to be a story of some moment, I will send this fellow back to my lodgings. He's a long-ear'd dog that I am saving from the gallows for so long as my conscience allows me. The shower is done, I see; so if you know of a retir'd spot, we will talk there more at our leisure.”

He dismiss'd his lackey, and stroll'd off with me to the Trinity Grove, where, walking up and down, I told him all I had heard and seen the night before.

“And now,” said I, “can you tell me if you have any such enemy as this white-hair'd man, with the limping gait?”

He had come to a halt, sucking in his lips and seeming to reflect—

“I know one man,” he began: “but no—'tis impossible.”

As I stood, waiting to hear more, he clapp'd his hand in mine, very quick and friendly: “Jack,” he cried;—“I'll call thee Jack—'twas an honest good turn thou hadst in thy heart to do me, and I a surly rogue to