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"Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no
more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that
the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to
witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were like holding the
unborn babe to judgment for sins com--"
"
Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! Whither art
flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they toward Southwark?"
"
Even so, your worship--for, as I said before, as to that detestable
joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--"
"
Art here YET! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!" The
servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged
down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, "'Tis that scurvy
villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my poor little
mad master--it is a bitter thought--and I had come to love thee so! No!
by book and bell, NOT lost! Not lost, for I will ransack the land till I
find thee again. Poor child, yonder is his breakfast--and mine, but I
have no hunger now; so, let the rats have it--speed, speed! that is the
word!" As he wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the
Bridge he several times said to himself--clinging to the thought as if it
were a particularly pleasing one--"He grumbled, but he WENT--he went,
117
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