know.” He turned to Ocean. “Do you think you can find the men who attacked us?” he asked.
“If they can be found, I’ll find them, rest assured,” said Ocean. “But about this here army sergeant you mentioned—the one that identified the body...”
“Yes?” said Dr. Harker.
“Well, the fact is, I’ve been doing some nosing around myself. A friend told me something of that soldier only this morning.”
“Well, that’s marvelous, Ocean. When can we talk to this friend of yours?”
“Would now be a suitable time?” said Ocean.
“It certainly would,” the doctor replied.
“Then follow me,” said Ocean, and they were off.
Tom and Dr. Harker followed on Ocean’s heels, struggling at times to keep up with him. Both Tom and the doctor prided themselves on knowing London like they knew their own bedchambers, but they soon found they had not the slightest idea where they were. Ocean took them on a trail through backyards and alleyways, never once pausing to check his way. A long flight of green and well-worn steps brought them to a blackened brick archway, and then, all of a sudden, they were in Covent Garden market, the air thick with the smell of lavender and poverty.
Outside the Green Man alehouse was a blind fiddler. Under his tattered hat was a face that had once been handsome; on his back, a moth-eaten coat that had once been the height of fashion. A red-haired boy was bending down to steal the few coins from the pewter dish at his feet when, quick as a whip, the fiddler kicked him soundly on the backside, sending him sprawling across the pavement. Ocean picked the boy up by the scruff of his neck.
“Ocean . . . ,” said the boy, shuffling away, “I didn’t mean no harm.”
“Be off with you, you little tick, before I kick you myself!” With that, the boy scuttled off down the street.
“Ocean!” called the fiddler. “Is that you, my friend?”
“It is, Jacob,” said Ocean. “And I have two friends with me. They seek that soldier-boy you spoke of. They think it might help them find whoever it was that did for Will. Can you tell them what you know?”
“Well,” began the fiddler, “I was south of the river, Southwark ways. I’d had a good day and I dropped into a tavern—The Ten-Killed Cat, they call it—for a drink or two before coming back. That’s when I heard the sergeant. He was as drunk as a watchman, and he was blathering about how he was ready for them when they came, and that no Indian was going to get the better of him.”
“No Indian?” Dr. Harker repeated.
The blind fiddler nodded. “Those were his very words. No Indian.”
“Thank you,” said Dr. Harker. “That is very interesting. Thank you for your help.” He put some money in the blind man’s hand.
“With all respect, your honor, you can keep your money,” said the fiddler solemnly. “Will was a good lad. You catch the louse that did for him, and that’ll be payment enough.”
“Then will you accept our thanks?” said Dr. Harker, shaking his hand.
“That I will, sir. And here’s hoping you keep safe in your searching.”
As they walked away, Dr. Harker said, “I’m beginning to wonder if old Purney wasn’t right about the Mohocks after all.”
THE TEN-KILLED CAT
The next day, Tom and Dr. Harker were crossing over London Bridge on their way to Southwark. When they reached the middle, they paused to take in the view: the city was bristling with church spires and wearing St. Paul’s like a crown. To the west, the river bustled with little boats, barges, and ferries. Watermen shouted, sang, and cursed below them, and two young rakes cheered as they shot the rapids that formed as the mighty Thames was squeezed through London Bridge’s many arches. Tom crossed to the other side to see if they had fallen in, but the skill of their boat-man had seen them safely through. A group of builders on the south bank gave them a ripple of applause. One of the rakes stood up, bowed
“If they can be found, I’ll find them, rest assured,” said Ocean. “But about this here army sergeant you mentioned—the one that identified the body...”
“Yes?” said Dr. Harker.
“Well, the fact is, I’ve been doing some nosing around myself. A friend told me something of that soldier only this morning.”
“Well, that’s marvelous, Ocean. When can we talk to this friend of yours?”
“Would now be a suitable time?” said Ocean.
“It certainly would,” the doctor replied.
“Then follow me,” said Ocean, and they were off.
Tom and Dr. Harker followed on Ocean’s heels, struggling at times to keep up with him. Both Tom and the doctor prided themselves on knowing London like they knew their own bedchambers, but they soon found they had not the slightest idea where they were. Ocean took them on a trail through backyards and alleyways, never once pausing to check his way. A long flight of green and well-worn steps brought them to a blackened brick archway, and then, all of a sudden, they were in Covent Garden market, the air thick with the smell of lavender and poverty.
Outside the Green Man alehouse was a blind fiddler. Under his tattered hat was a face that had once been handsome; on his back, a moth-eaten coat that had once been the height of fashion. A red-haired boy was bending down to steal the few coins from the pewter dish at his feet when, quick as a whip, the fiddler kicked him soundly on the backside, sending him sprawling across the pavement. Ocean picked the boy up by the scruff of his neck.
“Ocean . . . ,” said the boy, shuffling away, “I didn’t mean no harm.”
“Be off with you, you little tick, before I kick you myself!” With that, the boy scuttled off down the street.
“Ocean!” called the fiddler. “Is that you, my friend?”
“It is, Jacob,” said Ocean. “And I have two friends with me. They seek that soldier-boy you spoke of. They think it might help them find whoever it was that did for Will. Can you tell them what you know?”
“Well,” began the fiddler, “I was south of the river, Southwark ways. I’d had a good day and I dropped into a tavern—The Ten-Killed Cat, they call it—for a drink or two before coming back. That’s when I heard the sergeant. He was as drunk as a watchman, and he was blathering about how he was ready for them when they came, and that no Indian was going to get the better of him.”
“No Indian?” Dr. Harker repeated.
The blind fiddler nodded. “Those were his very words. No Indian.”
“Thank you,” said Dr. Harker. “That is very interesting. Thank you for your help.” He put some money in the blind man’s hand.
“With all respect, your honor, you can keep your money,” said the fiddler solemnly. “Will was a good lad. You catch the louse that did for him, and that’ll be payment enough.”
“Then will you accept our thanks?” said Dr. Harker, shaking his hand.
“That I will, sir. And here’s hoping you keep safe in your searching.”
As they walked away, Dr. Harker said, “I’m beginning to wonder if old Purney wasn’t right about the Mohocks after all.”
THE TEN-KILLED CAT
The next day, Tom and Dr. Harker were crossing over London Bridge on their way to Southwark. When they reached the middle, they paused to take in the view: the city was bristling with church spires and wearing St. Paul’s like a crown. To the west, the river bustled with little boats, barges, and ferries. Watermen shouted, sang, and cursed below them, and two young rakes cheered as they shot the rapids that formed as the mighty Thames was squeezed through London Bridge’s many arches. Tom crossed to the other side to see if they had fallen in, but the skill of their boat-man had seen them safely through. A group of builders on the south bank gave them a ripple of applause. One of the rakes stood up, bowed