"Am I so repulsive to you then?"
"Not you, Jeremy. But what you are. It's true that there are no maids prettier than I in New York, I can read, I've learned to write, and I'm quick-witted. Not many have such an abundance of assets, but they'll be wasted unless I husband them in the right way."
"Unless you can catch the right husband, you mean." In spite of himself, Jeremy was growing angry.
Peggy's eyes blazed. "If you wish, yes!" she exclaimed, her voice rising. "I don't care to spend my life in some miserable, crowded cabin, raising a brood of half-wild, uneducated children and working for a man who can scarce support me,"
Jeremy raised a hand to stem the flow of words. He agreed heartily with the sentiments she was expressing, and he wanted to tell her so. Perhaps this was the girl who could help him up the ladder, for surely her ambition matched his own.
But he had no opportunity to say anything, for she continued in a rush: "There are so many millers and carpenters and tanners and—and gunsmiths in this world and so few men of standing and quality. I'm worthy of the attention of someone like—like Sir James."
He stared at her for a long minute, saying nothing, scarcely breathing. Then suddenly he reached out quickly, took hold of Peggy's arm, and pulled her to him. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he wrenched her over his knees, backside up, and proceeded to spank her thoroughly, putting the full strength of his sinewy muscles into each blow. The girl screamed and struggled, tried to bite and scratch, and finally unleashed a torrent of curses. Only when her struggles ceased did he stop, as abruptly as he had begun.
Without a word to Peggy, who was now gazing at him with shining eyes as she struggled to her feet, he walked out into the night, slamming the door hard behind him. His rage was unabated, but he felt slightly ashamed, knowing that what he had just done was futile, totally unsatisfying. He heard the door open, then Peggy called to him softly, but he did not slow his step or look back.
He started in the direction of King Street, vaguely realizing that he had eaten no supper and that he needed some food and a drink before going back to the dingy room he shared with Dirk. The streets became narrower, and occasionally he stumbled over debris carelessly thrown into the road. Suddenly, some yards ahead and off to the left, he heard a cry for help and he responded automatically, breaking into a run. Some twenty yards in front of him was the opening into an alleyway, where he dimly saw the figure of a man lying on the ground some feet inside the alley. Three other masculine figures were bent over him, dropping and scattering papers. One of the men was holding a thick leather pouch purse and was gleefully swinging it to and fro.
Jeremy moved cautiously into the alley. The man on the ground was sprawled in a grotesque heap, breathing heavily with his eyes closed. In the trampled snow beside him was his sword, still in its scabbard and attached to its belt, which the men had removed in order to tear the purse loose. The biggest of the trio of footpads, with gray-streaked hair and beard, looked up sharply as he heard Jeremy's steps on the snow.
"You!" he barked in a rasping voice. "Get out o' here!"
"If'n you know what's good for you, get!" echoed the man who held the purse. "This here one," he added, pointing a grimy forefinger at the figure on the ground, "done us the favor o' droppin' off peaceable-like, all by hisself. But we might get a mite rough with a nosy like you. Go mind your own affairs and you'll be healthy enough in the mornin' t' go t' work in your cobbler shop. Get, now. We ain't goin' t' warn you again."
A spasm of rage shook Jeremy: even criminals brushed him aside as a lowly artisan, A cobbler, indeed! He'd show them!
Leaping forward, he bent down, scooped up the unconscious victim's sword, and drew it from its sheath. It was a good blade—long, with a balanced hilt, and he switched it experimentally, secretly rejoicing at the feel of the weapon in his hand. The footpads, thoroughly alarmed, were on their feet in an instant, and Jeremy saw that the leader carried a heavy club in his right hand. The man's face was working, and he spat into the snow.
"We don't like killin' when we don't have t' kill," he snarled. "But you don't seem t' know when you're well off, cobbler."
While he spoke, the silent member of the trio stooped down and lifted some large object from the ground. The man's hand drew back, and he hurled a large brick straight at Jeremy. The young one-time gentleman ducked instinctively, and the missile grazed his head before crashing into a wooden wall behind him. The move threw him off balance, and before he could recover, two of the thugs rushed him. The man who had not spoken grappled with him, and Jeremy pulled back his left fist, then smashed it hard into the criminal's face. The fellow staggered back, and Jeremy was quietly grateful for the physical strength he had acquired in his years as an indentured gunsmith. The fleeting, ironic thought crossed his mind that few gentlemen were endowed with such muscles.
The silent footpad skidded on the ice and crashed into his companion who held the moneybag, just as the latter was about to leap for Jeremy's throat. The criminal struggled to regain his footing, and in that instant Jeremy's sword flicked out and expertly severed the thongs at the top of the bag. Coins spilled out into the snow, and the man's drive lost its impact; he stood indecisively, undecided whether to press his attack against the intruder or to recover the silver and gold pieces that lay on the ground.
Jeremy determined the issue for him: the long sword whipped out again, pinked the thug in the shoulder, and drew blood. Then, without losing speed, it swept down and sliced open the breeches of the silent man, who in trying to scramble to his feet unwisely presented his backside as a target. The cut across his buttocks gave his efforts added zest, and he leaped to his feet, then fled down the alleyway. Meantime the fellow who had sustained the shoulder wound withdrew more slowly, holding the bleeding flesh with his other hand and cursing under his breath as he backed away.
Only the leader remained now, and he stood warily, feet planted apart, out of reach of the sword as he held the heavy wooden club firmly in his right hand. He began to swing it slowly, and an unpleasant leer appeared on his face as his eyes met Jeremy's. "So you c'n handle a sword, eh, cobbler? You've bought'n yourself a long tin toy somewheres, and you've gone out t' the woods o' upper Manhattan 'n' practiced when you thought nobody was about t' watch, eh? 'N' now you think you're goin' t' step In 'n' take the booty from this drunken pig of a rich cull, now I 'n' my lads have done all the work. Think you these things, eh? You've another think come-in', cobbler!"
The club was swinging rapidly now, and Jeremy, sword poised, realized that in another moment the criminal leader would let fly with the heavy piece of wood; from the expert way in which he handled it, there was little doubt that he had used it as a weapon in this peculiar manner before and was talking so determinedly merely in order to distract Jeremy's attention. There was no choice but to strike first, and as the man's arm came up, Jeremy lunged forward. Despite the half-light of the moon, his aim was unerring and the point of the blade sank into the man's wrist.
Screaming in pain, the burly footpad dropped his club and scurried off. Jeremy watched him until he was out of sight, then at last turned to the figure sprawled on the ground. As he did so he absently stuck the naked sword into his belt, and it felt good there. Dropping to one knee, he looked at the man who was lying so quietly. The thieves had not, apparently, hurt him in any way, for there was no blood on his face or clothes, no swelling anywhere on his head. In fact, he was breathing evenly and deeply and seemed to be perspiring slightly. Jeremy leaned a bit closer, then grinned. The odor of liquor was heavy on the victim's breath; he was, in short, dead drunk.