“Are you a sheriff’s man, master?’ asked the boatman presently, as he strained and tugged at the oars.
“No, friend,” I answered. “I am nobody’s man. Yonder man is my enemy, and he hath done me bitter wrongs, to avenge which I have been seeking him this long time. So pull hard, friend, and don’t let him escape me.”
“He shall not escape Tom Drewitt,” said the man.
“Not if he pulled like two men. Do you still see him, master?”
“Yes,” I cried. “We are gaining on him. He is altering his course—more to the left.”
“He is making for London Bridge, master,” said the man, swinging his boat round to the north bank of the river. “Make your mind easy; we shall reach the stairs as soon as he.”
So we went along the dark river, in and out between the craft that lay at rest there, but never once did my eyes leave the boat in front, upon which we were steadily gaining.
XLIV
Of the Fate of Dennis Watson
So strongly did Dennis row that he reached the stairs on the north bank of the river, close upon the head of the bridge, while we were yet some four boats’ lengths away. He leaped from his boat and was at the head of the stair before we reached the foot, and so he disappeared through an archway that gave access to the bridge.
“Quick, friend!” I cried, as I saw my enemy getting beyond my reach. “If he is once out of sight I shall never find him in this great city.”
“He is not escaped yet, master,” said the boatman. “He cannot pass the north gate without being observed, and if he turns t’other way you can follow him.”
He bent himself earnestly to the oars as he spoke, and in another instant the boat grated against the slimy steps, over which the water was lapping dismally. I was fumbling for my purse, when the man followed me from the boat and hooked his craft to a ring in the wall close by.
“Run on, master,” said he. “Lord love you, I am all for a bit of adventure myself, and will help you with this matter. Up the stairs and through the archway.”
We ran to the head of the steps, and, turning through a deep arch in the great wall, found ourselves on the bridge immediately beneath the north gate. The keeper had already closed the portcullis, and was seated in his lodge half asleep.
“Rouse him up,” said the boatman. “Hallo, Master Grice, are you already slumbering? Come, has a man passed through the lodge just now?”
“Not this half-hour,” answered the keeper, “neither north nor south.”
“What, man, bethink thee! One ran through the archway from the river steps but this moment.”
“Then a’ turned towards Southwark end,” said the keeper, and laid his head back against the hood of his chair; “a’ came not through my lodge, Tom Drewitt.”
“Come,” said the waterman. “We waste time there, master. Let us go down the bridge.”
We left the lodge and walked quickly away in the direction of the south gate, looking hither and thither as we passed between the houses for some sign of the man we sought. The bridge was but badly lighted, and there were few people on it, for a light snow had begun to fall and the cold air was keen and biting.
“He will probably have turned into one of these houses,” said I, by that time despairing of seeing him again.
“Maybe so, master,” said the boatman; “but ’tis my opinion that he will have made for the other end of the bridge. Let us get down to the gate as sharply as we can. But stay; let us use some little craft in our design. Do you, master, walk first and make straight for t’other gate, and I will come after at a few paces’ distance.”
In this way we pressed forward, I going first, grasping my staff and looking narrowly into every nook and corner as I passed. I felt sure that we had lost Dennis, for the doors of several shops and houses stood open, and there was naught easier than for him to run inside one of them and hide himself until we had gone by. It was impossible for us to search every house; but even if we had done so, the buildings were so full of holes and corners that our man might have hid in one room while we were seeking him in another. Great wooden houses they were on that bridge, with high gables that projected over the roadway beneath, so that the eaves formed a sort of shelter and kept rain and snow from those who walked beneath them.
I had reached the centre of the bridge, and was beginning to redouble my pace, when a shout from the boatman brought me to a halt. As I turned he ran up, pointing to the door of a tavern which stood open on our right hand.
“He came out from there as you passed,” said the man, “and when I shouted he ran across the bridge and into yon door,” pointing to a house opposite the inn. “So now, master, we have him caged.”
“Will he escape at the back?” I said.
“Not unless he goes into the river,” answered the boatman. “Come, we have him now. He has closed the door behind him, but we will soon remedy that.”
Saying this, he advanced to the house in which Dennis had taken refuge, and began to knock loudly at the door, to which there presently came an old man, who opened it and looked fretfully out at us.
“What do you beat my door so violently for?” he asked, regarding us with anything but favourable glances.
“We are sorry
