If you change your mind, come to the Mermaid Tavern tomorrow at seven o'clock. It's on Bread Street.”
I turned at the gate, one hand on the latch, and sighed mightily. “Do me one good turn, Starling Shaw: leave off taking such a tender interest in my welfare.” Then I opened the gate and stepped through it, fully believing I had exchanged my last word with her.
On the following day, I looked for those two silent overseers in every nook and shadow of the quay, but they were not to be found. No wonder—I had decided they were figments of one girl's over-wrought fancy. The air breathed damp but warm that morning, my belly was full, and the other boys had begun to treat me with some respect, even friendliness. Master Southern had commented upon my knack with figures and hinted there might be an opening in the counting house. No need to assume that I would have to toss kegs forever, with the ability to rise beyond that. And God willing, I would rise; I was an Englishman.
Just after breakfast I glanced toward the street and felt a fainttwinge in my guts: a lonely, furtive part of me missed Starling Shaw, a little. But London was full of meddling females, or any other kind of friend or companion I might wish to meet. I picked up the prongs of the barrow and gave it a shove to start my mid-morning delivery to the taverns of Cheapside, in the neighborhood of the Royal Exchange.
The route was an easy one I had traveled three times already: most of the deliveries were to inns and taverns along Lombard and Fenchurch streets. After the Golden Bear came the Lord Loudon, then the Sail and Cleat, then the Unicorn. At each stop I unloaded a keg or two of Italian claret or Spanish sack and usually took an equal number of empty kegs to return to the warehouse. Each tavern had its own account with Motheby and Southern; payments, whether in coin or credit, went into a leather pouch tied to my belt. I was pleased that after so short a time the masters trusted me with their money.
The streets were full, as always, with so many people on so many errands they made me dizzy. In the village where I grew up, everyone's business was known even before he did anything: when the blacksmith crossed the street at ten o'clock he was making for his morning dram at the Red Lion, and when Mary Fable ran from one house to another she was looking for “that devil Stephen,” her youngest. But in London, aims multiplied with the populace. Every carter, beggar, housewife, and lord spun his thread, weaving in a huge intricate pattern the life of the city. The liveliest threads were spun by apprentices. Most, like me, wentabout their work with more or less willing hands, minding their own business. But the shiftless ones were always roaming in packs and looking for trouble.
I was between the Unicorn and the Roaring Bull at noon that day when—amid the shouts of tradesmen, the tunes of vendors singing their wares, and the groan of iron-rimmed wheels on cobblestones—my ears picked up the sound of running steps. Many steps, coming up directly behind me.
Without thinking I swerved the barrow to one side. Three figures darted across the street to my right, making toward a small group of young men who had gathered to pass the time. One of them clipped a fellow in the knees, another snatched an apprentice's cap, the third butted shoulders with a lad hard enough to knock him to the ground. The street seemed to freeze for an instant, as though caught in a flash of lightning, then out of no particular throat came the bloodcurdling cry:
“Clubs!”
The street erupted. Women grabbed their children and dashed for shelter. Carters whipped their horses to the sidelines, snatched their halters, and covered their eyes. At the same time young men and boys boiled out of the shops and side streets, eager to join the fight, no matter its cause.
I was not one of them. No one had to advise me to push my cargo aside and hold clear. But the barrow was scarcely turned when I
I turned at the gate, one hand on the latch, and sighed mightily. “Do me one good turn, Starling Shaw: leave off taking such a tender interest in my welfare.” Then I opened the gate and stepped through it, fully believing I had exchanged my last word with her.
On the following day, I looked for those two silent overseers in every nook and shadow of the quay, but they were not to be found. No wonder—I had decided they were figments of one girl's over-wrought fancy. The air breathed damp but warm that morning, my belly was full, and the other boys had begun to treat me with some respect, even friendliness. Master Southern had commented upon my knack with figures and hinted there might be an opening in the counting house. No need to assume that I would have to toss kegs forever, with the ability to rise beyond that. And God willing, I would rise; I was an Englishman.
Just after breakfast I glanced toward the street and felt a fainttwinge in my guts: a lonely, furtive part of me missed Starling Shaw, a little. But London was full of meddling females, or any other kind of friend or companion I might wish to meet. I picked up the prongs of the barrow and gave it a shove to start my mid-morning delivery to the taverns of Cheapside, in the neighborhood of the Royal Exchange.
The route was an easy one I had traveled three times already: most of the deliveries were to inns and taverns along Lombard and Fenchurch streets. After the Golden Bear came the Lord Loudon, then the Sail and Cleat, then the Unicorn. At each stop I unloaded a keg or two of Italian claret or Spanish sack and usually took an equal number of empty kegs to return to the warehouse. Each tavern had its own account with Motheby and Southern; payments, whether in coin or credit, went into a leather pouch tied to my belt. I was pleased that after so short a time the masters trusted me with their money.
The streets were full, as always, with so many people on so many errands they made me dizzy. In the village where I grew up, everyone's business was known even before he did anything: when the blacksmith crossed the street at ten o'clock he was making for his morning dram at the Red Lion, and when Mary Fable ran from one house to another she was looking for “that devil Stephen,” her youngest. But in London, aims multiplied with the populace. Every carter, beggar, housewife, and lord spun his thread, weaving in a huge intricate pattern the life of the city. The liveliest threads were spun by apprentices. Most, like me, wentabout their work with more or less willing hands, minding their own business. But the shiftless ones were always roaming in packs and looking for trouble.
I was between the Unicorn and the Roaring Bull at noon that day when—amid the shouts of tradesmen, the tunes of vendors singing their wares, and the groan of iron-rimmed wheels on cobblestones—my ears picked up the sound of running steps. Many steps, coming up directly behind me.
Without thinking I swerved the barrow to one side. Three figures darted across the street to my right, making toward a small group of young men who had gathered to pass the time. One of them clipped a fellow in the knees, another snatched an apprentice's cap, the third butted shoulders with a lad hard enough to knock him to the ground. The street seemed to freeze for an instant, as though caught in a flash of lightning, then out of no particular throat came the bloodcurdling cry:
“Clubs!”
The street erupted. Women grabbed their children and dashed for shelter. Carters whipped their horses to the sidelines, snatched their halters, and covered their eyes. At the same time young men and boys boiled out of the shops and side streets, eager to join the fight, no matter its cause.
I was not one of them. No one had to advise me to push my cargo aside and hold clear. But the barrow was scarcely turned when I
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