Part 38 (2/2)

But the fellow came on like a strutting peac.o.c.k with his head in air.

Behind followed his page with cloak and rapier. In one hand our dandy carried his white gloves, in the other a lace gewgaw heavy with musk, which he fluttered in the face of every shopkeeper's daughter.

”Give the wall! Give the wall!” cries the page. ”Give the wall to Lieutenant Blood o' the Tower!”

”S'blood,” says M. Radisson insolently, ”let us send that snipe sprawling!”

At that was a mighty awakening on the part of my fine gentleman.

”Blood is my name,” says he. ”Step aside!”

”An Blood is its name,” retorts M. Radisson, ”'tis bad blood; and I've a mind to let some of it, unless the thing gets out of my way!”

With which M. Radisson whips out his sword, and my grand beau condescends to look at us.

”Boy,” he commands, ”call an officer!”

”Boy,” shouts M. Radisson, ”call a chirurgeon to mend its toes!” and his blade cut a swath across the dandy's s.h.i.+ning pumps.

At that was a jump!

Whatever the beaux of King Charles's court may have been, they were not cowards! Grasping his sword from the page, the fellow made at us. What with the las.h.i.+ng of the coachmen riding post-haste to see the fray, the jostling chairmen calling out ”A fight! A fight!” and the 'prentices yelling at the top of their voices for ”A watch! A watch!” we had had it hot enough then and there for M. Radisson's sport; but above the melee sounded another shrill alarm, the ”Gardez l'eau! Gardy loo!” of some French kitchen wench throwing her breakfast slops to mid-road from the dwelling overhead. [1]

Only on the instant had I jerked M. Radisson back; and down they came--dish-water--and coffee leavings--and porridge sc.r.a.ps full on the crown of my fine young gentleman, drenching his gay attire as it had been soaked in soapsuds of a week old. Something burst from his lips a deal stronger than the modish French oaths then in vogue. There was a shout from the rabble. I dragged rather than led M. Radisson pell-mell into a shop from front to rear, over a score of garden walls, and out again from rear to front, so that we gave the slip to all those officers now running for the scene of the broil.

”Egad's life,” cried M. de Radisson, laughing and laughing, ”'tis the narrowest escape I've ever had! Pardieu--to escape the north sea and drown in dish-water! Lord--to beat devils and be snuffed out by a wench in petticoats! 'Tis the martyrdom of heroes! What a tale for the court!”

And he laughed and laughed again till I must needs call a chair to get him away from onlookers. In the shop of a draper a thought struck him.

”Egad, lad, that young blade was Blood!”

”So he told you.”

”Did he? Son of the Blood who stole the crown ten years ago, and got your own Stanhope lands in reward from the king!”

What memories were his words bringing back?--M. Picot in the hunting-room telling me of Blood, the freebooter and swordsman. And that brings me to the real reason for our plundering the linen-drapers' shops before presenting ourselves at Sir John Kirke's mansion in Drury Lane, where gentlemen with one eye c.o.c.ked on the doings of the n.o.bility in the west and the other keen for city trade were wont to live in those days.

For six years M. Radisson had not seen Mistress Mary Kirke--as his wife styled herself after he broke from the English--and I had not heard one word of Hortense for nigh as many months. Say what you will of the dandified dolls who wasted half a day before the looking-gla.s.s in the reign of Charles Stuart, there are times when the bravest of men had best look twice in the gla.s.s ere he set himself to the task of conquering fair eyes. We did not drag our linen through a scent bath nor loll all morning in the hands of a man milliner charged with the duty of turning us into showmen's dummies--as was the way of young sparks in that age.

But that was how I came to buy yon monstrous wig costing forty guineas and weighing ten pounds and coming half-way to a man's waist. And you may set it down to M. Radisson's credit that he went with his wiry hair flying wild as a lion's mane. Nothing I could say would make him exchange his Indian moccasins for the high-heeled pumps with a buckle at the instep.

”I suppose,” he had conceded grudgingly, ”we must have a brat to carry swords and cloaks for us, or we'll be taken for some o' your cheap-jack hucksters parading latest fas.h.i.+ons,” and he bade our host of the Star and Garter have some lad searched out for us by the time we should be coming home from Sir John Kirke's that night.

A mighty personage with fat chops and ruddy cheeks and rounded waistcoat and padded calves received us at the door of Sir John Kirke's house in Drury Lane. Sir John was not yet back from the Exchange, this grand fellow loftily informed us at the entrance to the house. A glance told him that we had neither page-boy nor private carriage; and he half-shut the door in our faces.

”Now the devil take _this thing_ for a half-baked, back-stairs, second-hand kitchen gentleman,” hissed M. Radisson, pus.h.i.+ng in. ”Here, my fine fellow,” says he with a largesse of vails his purse could ill afford, ”here, you sauce-pans, go tell Madame Radisson her husband is here!”

I have always held that the vulgar like insolence nigh as well as silver; and Sieur Radisson's air sent the feet of the kitchen steward pattering.

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