On this Tuesday afternoon he had nothing to do.  Diggle was out; Desmond had read the newspapers and glanced at the last number of the World; he had written to his mother—­the third letter since his arrival in London; he could not settle to anything.  He resolved to go for a walk as far as St. Paul’s, perhaps, and take a last look at the busy streets he was not likely to see again for many a day.

Forth then he issued.  The streets were muddy; a mist was creeping up from the river, promising to thicken into a London fog, and the link boys were already preparing their tow and looking for a rich harvest of coppers ere the night was old.  Desmond picked his way through the quagmires of John Street, crossed Crutched Friars, and went up Mark Lane into Fenchurch Street, intending to go by Leadenhall Street and Cornhill into Cheapside.

He had just reached the lower end of Billiter Street, the narrow thoroughfare leading into Leadenhall, when he saw Diggle’s tall figure running amain towards him, with another man close behind, apparently in hot pursuit.  Diggle caught sight of Desmond at the same moment, and his eyes gleamed as with relief.  He quickened his pace.

“Hold this fellow behind me,” he panted as he passed, and before Desmond could put a question he was gone.

There was no time for deliberation.  Desmond had but just perceived that the pursuer was in the garb of a gentleman and had a broad patch of plaster stretched across his left temple, when the moment for action arrived.  Stooping low, he suddenly caught at the man’s knees.  Down he came heavily, mouthing hearty abuse, and man and boy were on the ground together.

Desmond was up first.  He now saw that a second figure was hurrying on from the other end of the street.  He was not sure what Diggle demanded of him; whether it was sufficient to have tripped up the pursuer, or whether he must hold him still in play.  But by this time the man was also on his feet; his hat was off, his silk breeches and brown coat with lace ruffles were all bemired.  Puffing and blowing, uttering many a round oath such as came freely to the lips of the Englishman of King George the Second’s time, he shouted to his friend behind to come on, and, disregarding Desmond, made to continue his pursuit.

Desmond could but grapple with him.

“Let go, villain!” cried the man, striving to free himself.

Desmond clung on; there was a brief struggle, but he was no match in size or strength for his opponent, who was thick-set and of considerable girth.  He fell backwards, overborne by the man’s weight.  His head struck on the road; dazed by the blow he loosened his clutch, and lay for a moment in semi-consciousness while the man sprang away.

But he was not so far gone as not to hear a loud shout behind him and near at hand, followed by the tramp of feet.

“Avast there!” The voice was familiar:  surely it was Bulger’s.  “Fair play!  Fourteen stone against seven en’t odds.  Show a leg, mateys.”