"I'm sure of it," said Adam.
It occurred to him that unless the kidnappers had already decamped, abandoning their treasure of small slaves, they would try to escape by means of this route over a roof.
For by now the thumping was unmistakable. Somebody was smashing in the front door. Adam heard a familiar voice:
"Ho again, ho again! All right, lads, let's have a chantey!" I spit on you, You spit on me—
By this time Adam himself had joined in: Ain't no politeness On Scaredy-Cat Sea!
Adam smiled. He took off his coat and vest. He cleared away the buckets and the tub. He placed the children along the wall on either side of the hall door. He rolled up his sleeves.
"I think we're going to have visitors," he explained.
"You going to kill them. Captain Long?"
"Well, I'm sure going to do my best to."
The door flew open. The big man came in roaring, wild as before. He'd picked up his rapier. He charged.
"Good," said Adam.
Never had the Hearth Cricket been so crowded. It was after closing hour, too, indeed near dawn. But as Hal pointed out, the bailiffs, who were everywhere, in and out, wouldn't break up a private party.
Adam Long felt mighty ashamed of himself, standing there naked to the waist while Goodwife Bingham washed his cuts.
"Good thing I took that coat off," he grumbled. "When I think of what I paid for it—"
"They was anchored out in the river, that's what took me so long," Hal Bingham said for the fourth or fifth time.
Resolved Forbes was staring at his skipper.
"You told me you might kill a man, sir. A man? You didn't say you were going to tackle a whole gang!"
Adam started, looking for his shirt.
"Tarnation, I forgot all about that! Must be near sunup. Ought to be a chair here for me soon. I got to get shaved."
"Shaved? What in Tophet are you going to do at this hour?"
"Fight," said Adam.
A sliver of moon hung over the field. It was cold; and even before he was obliged to take off his hat Adam regretted that he'd let them crop his hair. He could see his breath. He would have hopped about, stamping, had not John Chumley forbidden this.
" Y'would look as if you was nervous." I am.
Sir Jervis Johnston and his party arrived in Birdcage Walk a scant two minutes after Adam and his second. Some men, Chumley whispered, believed that it was bad luck to be first in the field; yet it would be bad manners to keep your enemy waiting.
If Adam must stay still, Chumley was a jumpingjack. Whether because they smelled trouble or because they had overheard informative talk on the way, every one of the chairmen and linkboys lingered; and they chattered like magpies—until the busy John Chumley shushed them.
"Now remember—gravity, gravity!" he'd tell Adam.
"I'll do the best I can."
Even on the way, Chumley, having hopped out of his own chair, electing to walk beside Adam's, had fretted and fussed like a mother at her daughter's first ball, a spate of instructions and advice. He made it clear, for the first time, that Adam had been accorded the honor of blading it out vAth Johnston chiefly because Johnston had difficulty finding opponents.
"Y'see, he's got this reputation to keep up. All he does is seduce women and skewer men. But he's running out of men who'll meet him in the field."
"I take it he's not running out of women who'll meet him in bed?"
"You never run out of them here."
A bee, Chumley buzzed about, conferring with this man and that, peering into the surgeon's bag, pacing the ground, studying the sky, measuring the swords, hefting the long heavy saber the referee would wield as well as the thick leather sleeve the referee would wear, in general assuring himself that everything was correct. Adam was left alone. He had been informed, and most earnestly, that it would be strictly de trof for him even to glance at his adversay until the time came to fight. Nevertheless, as was natural, he did sneak a look; and despite himself, despite his memory of Maisie, he nodded approval. Sir Jervis Johnston here in the watery light of dawn cut a far better figure than he had in the coffee house. He stood straighter; and though still affecting the languid wave of the hand, the deprecating lazy shrug, he was alive and alert. He smiled and chatted with his friends, as though sharing a bottle with them, and scrupulously refrained from taking any part in the preliminary arrangements or even showing any interest in these.
Adam sighed. He forced himself to look away.
London was still. Not even a beggar prowled, not even a whore. The only light that showed was at a window of the Brown Tun a short distance away. The Brown Tun, being obedient to the municipal regulations, was officially closed; but arrangements had been made to keep its back door unlocked for the benefit of the spectators' thirst, perhaps that of the principals, too, or one of them, after the affair of honor was ended.
Chumley minced back. He looked as though he was having a hard time to keep from clapping his hands in excitement.
"Now remember—be grave!"
"When do we start?"
"Everything is in order. At this stage it's customary for each second to make a last-minute plea with his principal, to see if he can't talk him out of it. That's what I'm supposed to be doing to you now. But nobody ever takes it seriously."
"I see."
"Now in a minute Dr. Russell'll address hoth of you, formally asking you if you can't settle your differences in some other manner than combat with arms—that's the usual phrase, or something like that. Nobody pays any attention to this either, ordinarily. It's just ceremony. But this morning when he makes that announcement I'm going to step forward and say 'Gentlemen, my principal has something to say.' Then you speak up. You express your willingness to apologize. It'll be expected, this morning. I hope you've got it prepared? I, uh, I wouldn't want it to be anything uncouth."
"It'll be in perfect English," Adam promised him.
"Then the Brown Tun. They've ordered some of this new wine from Champagne. It's charged with bubbles of air. A new process some monk invented. Frightfully expensive stuff."
He helped Adam off with his coat and waistcoat, and folded these, together with Adam's hat and his neck band, in a neat pile. He shook his head at the cuts in Adam's shirt.
"La, you look as if you'd been fighting already."
"I have. But this is the only shirt I've got. I mean, that's lawn."
"Well, it'll have to do— Ah, here we are!"
The surgeon, a lumpy man, took the center of the field. As though addressing a vast throng he made a speech calling for reconciliation. It was full of pompous inanities but at least it was short. At its end he looked at the man who stood next to Sir Jervis Johnston—all the others had withdrawn—and that man shook his head. Then the surgeon looked at John Chumley, who stepped forward, clearing his throat.
"Gentlemen, my principal has something to say."
Adam, too, stepped forward. He and Jervis Johnston for the first time this morning looked directly at one another. Sir Jervis was appropriately serious, a model of decorum.
"All I've got to say," said Adam, "is, 'Let's get on with the fight.' We've wasted too much time already."
Chumley was white with what Adam assumed was rage, and he trembled when he brought the sword.
"You broke your promise, sir!"
"I made no promise."
"I'll repudiate you! I'll walk away!"
"You don't dare, now. You'd look too silly."
"But— But, damn me, Captain, I never thought it'd come to this! Truth is, I— I can't stand the sight of blood!"
"Then you'd better not look," said Adam.
He took the sword and swished it. It was lighter and somewhat less whippy, somewhat stiffer, than his own; but it was a good blade, exquisitely balanced. He nodded.