While my left hand was employed in feeling the latch,
I made such good use of my right, as to keep my antagonists
at a safe distance. The one who was nearest to
me, was Fib Fakescrew; he was armed with a weapon
exactly similar to my own. the whole passage rung with
oaths and threats. “Crash the cull—down
with him—down with him, before he dubs the
jigger. Tip him the degen, Fib, fake him through
and through; if he pikes, we shall all be scragged.”
Hitherto, in the confusion I had not been able to
recall Job’s instructions in opening the latch;
at last I remembered, and pressed, the screw—the
latch rose—I opened the door; but not wide
enough to scape through the aperture. The ruffians
saw my escape at hand. “Rush the b—
cove! rush him!” cried the loud voice of one
behind; and at the word, Fib was thrown forwards upon
the extended edge of my blade; scarcely with an effort
of my own arm, the sword entered his bosom, and he
fell at my feet bathed in blood; the motion which
the men thought would prove my destruction, became
my salvation; staggered by the fall of their companion
they gave way: I seized advantage of the momentary
confusion— threw open the door, and, mindful
of Job’s admonition, turned to the right, and
fled onwards, with a rapidity which baffled and mocked
pursuit.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.
Ille viam secat ad naves
sociosque, revisit.
—Virgil.
The day had already dawned, but all was still and
silent; my footsteps smote the solitary pavement with
a strange and unanswered sound. Nevertheless,
though all pursuit had long ceased, I still continued
to run on mechanically, till, faint and breathless,
I was forced into pausing. I looked round, but
could recognize nothing familiar in the narrow and
filthy streets; even the names of them were to me like
an unknown language. After a brief rest I renewed
my wanderings, and at length came to an alley, called
River Lane; the name did not deceive me, but brought
me, after a short walk, to the Thames; there, to my
inexpressible joy, I discovered a solitary boatman,
and transported myself forthwith to the Whitehall-stairs.
Never, I ween, did gay gallant, in the decaying part
of the season, arrive at those stairs for the sweet
purpose of accompanying his own mistress, or another’s
wife, to green Richmond, or sunny Hampton, with more
eager and animated delight than I felt at rejecting
the arm of the rough boatman, and leaping on the well-known
stones. I hastened to that stand of “jarvies”
which has often been the hope and shelter of belated
member of St. Stephen’s, or bewetted fugitive
from the Opera. I startled a sleeping coachman,
flung myself into his vehicle, and descended at Mivart’s.
The drowsy porter surveyed, and told me to be gone;
I had forgotten my strange attire. “Pooh,
my friend,” said I, “may not Mr. Pelham
go to a masquerade as well as his betters?”
My voice and words undeceived my Cerberus, and I was
admitted; I hastened to bed, and no sooner had I laid
my head on my pillow, than I fell fast asleep.
It must be confessed, that I had deserved “tired
Nature’s sweet restorer.”
