“Halloa, halloa, halloa!  Keep up your spirits!  Never say die!” the bird went on, in a hoarse voice.  “Bow, wow, wow!” And then he began to whistle.

The locksmith said “Good-night,” and went his way home, disturbed in thought.

“In league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from a gibbet.  He listening and hiding here.  Barnaby first upon the spot last night.  Can she, who has always borne so fair a name, be guilty of such crimes in secret?” said the locksmith, musing.  “Heaven forgive me if I am wrong, and send me just thoughts.”

II—­Barnaby Is Enrolled

It is seven in the forenoon, on June 2, 1780, and Barnaby and his mother, who had travelled to London to escape that unwelcome visitor whom Varden had noticed, were resting in one of the recesses of Westminster Bridge.

A vast throng of persons were crossing the river to the Surrey shore in unusual haste and excitement, and nearly every man in this great concourse wore in his hat a blue cockade.

When the bridge was clear, which was not till nearly two hours had elapsed, the widow inquired of an old man what was the meaning of the great assemblage.

“Why, haven’t you heard?” he returned.  “This is the day Lord George Gordon presents the petition against the Catholics, and his lordship has declared he won’t present it to the House of Commons at all unless it is attended to the door by forty thousand good men and true, at least.  There’s a crowd for you!”

“A crowd, indeed!” said Barnaby.  “Do you hear that, mother?  That’s a brave crowd he talks of.  Come!”

“Not to join it!” cried his mother.  “You don’t know what mischief they may do, or where they may lead you.  Dear Barnaby, for my sake——­”

“For your sake!” he answered.  “It is for your sake, mother.  Here’s a brave crowd!  Come—­or wait till I come back!  Yes, yes, wait here!”

A stranger gave Barnaby a blue cockade and bade him wear it, and while he was still fixing it in his hat Lord Gordon and his secretary, Gashford, passed, and then turned back.

“You lag behind, friend, and are late,” said Lord George.  “It’s past ten now.  Didn’t you know the hour of assemblage was ten o’clock?”

Barnaby shook his head, and looked vacantly from one to the other.

“He cannot tell you, sir,” the widow interposed.  “It’s no use to ask him.  We know nothing of these matters.  This is my son—­my poor, afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life.  He is not in his right senses—­he is not, indeed.”

“He has surely no appearance,” said Lord George, whispering in his secretary’s ear, “of being deranged.  We must not construe any trifling peculiarity into madness.  You desire to make one of this body?” he added, addressing Barnaby.  “And intended to make one, did you?”

“Yes, yes,” said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes.  “To be sure, I did.  I told her so myself.”