“Explain, thou limb of Satan, or thy time is come!” roared the man of war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this latter could not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and surprise.  “Where is the boy?”

In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information desired.

“You were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth came running and said it was your worship’s will that the boy come to you straight, at the bridge-end on the Southwark side.  I brought him hither; and when he woke the lad and gave his message, the lad did grumble some little for being disturbed ‘so early,’ as he called it, but straightway trussed on his rags and went with the youth, only saying it had been better manners that your worship came yourself, not sent a stranger—­and so—­”

“And so thou’rt a fool!—­a fool and easily cozened—­hang all thy breed!  Yet mayhap no hurt is done.  Possibly no harm is meant the boy.  I will go fetch him.  Make the table ready.  Stay! the coverings of the bed were disposed as if one lay beneath them—­happened that by accident?”

“I know not, good your worship.  I saw the youth meddle with them—­he that came for the boy.”

“Thousand deaths!  ’Twas done to deceive me—­’tis plain ’twas done to gain time.  Hark ye!  Was that youth alone?”

“All alone, your worship.”

“Art sure?”

“Sure, your worship.”

“Collect thy scattered wits—­bethink thee—­take time, man.”

After a moment’s thought, the servant said—­

“When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as the two stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining them—­”

“What then?—­out with it!” thundered the impatient Hendon, interrupting.

“Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to witness that to blame me for that miscarriage were like holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com—­”

“Out of my sight, idiot!  Thy prating drives me mad!  Hold!  Whither art flying?  Canst not bide still an instant?  Went they toward Southwark?”

“Even so, your worship—­for, as I said before, as to that detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than—­”

“Art here yet!  And prating still!  Vanish, lest I throttle thee!” The servitor vanished.  Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, “’Tis that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son.  I have lost thee, my poor little mad master—­it is a bitter thought—­and I had come to love thee so!  No! by book and bell, not lost!  Not lost, for I will ransack the land till I find thee again.  Poor child,