lee
sounded another shrill alarm, the "Gardez l'eau! Gardy loo!" of some
French kitchen wench throwing her breakfast slops to mid-road from the
dwelling overhead. [1]

Only on the instant had I jerked M. Radisson back; and down they
came--dish-water--and coffee leavings--and porridge scraps full on the
crown of my fine young gentleman, drenching his gay attire as it had been
soaked in soapsuds of a week old. Something burst from his lips a deal
stronger than the modish French oaths then in vogue. There was a shout
from the rabble. I dragged rather than led M. Radisson pell-mell into a
shop from front to rear, over a score of garden walls, and out again from
rear to front, so that we gave the slip to all those officers now running
for the scene of the broil.

"Egad's life," cried M. de Radisson, laughing and laughing, "'tis the
narrowest escape I've ever had! Pardieu--to escape the north sea and
drown in dish-water! Lord--to beat devils and be snuffed out by a wench
in petticoats! 'Tis the martyrdom of heroes! What a tale for the
court!"

And he laughed and laughed again till I must needs call a chair to get
him away from onlookers. In the shop of a draper a thought struck him.

"Egad, lad, that young blade was Blood!"

"So he told you."

"Did he? Son of the Blood who stole the crown ten years ago, and got
your own Stanhope lands in reward from the king!"

What memories were his words bringing back?--M. Picot in the hunting-room
telling me of Blood, the freebooter and swordsman. And that brings me to
the real reason for our plundering the linen-drapers' shops before
presenting ourselves at Sir John Kirke's mansion in Drury Lane, where
gentlemen with one eye cocked on the doings of the nobility in the west
and the other keen for city trade were wont to live in those days.

For six years M. Radisson had not seen Mistress Mary Kirke--as his wife
styled herself after he broke from the English--and I had not heard one
word of Hortense for nigh as many months. Say what you will of the
dandified dolls who wasted half a day before the looking-glass in the
reign of Charles Stuart, there are times when the bravest of men had best
look twice in the glass ere he set himself to the task of conquering fair
eyes. We did not drag our linen through a scent bath nor loll all
morning in the hands of a man milliner charged with the duty of turning
us into showmen's dummies--as was the way of young sparks in that age.