The Splendid Spur

’Twas on November 29th, Ao. 1642⁠—a clear, frosty day⁠—that the King, with the Prince of Wales (newly recovered of the measles), the Princes Rupert and Maurice, and a great company of lords and gentlemen, horse and foot, came marching back to us from Reading. I was a scholar of Trinity College in Oxford at that time, and may begin my history at three o’clock on the same afternoon, when going (as my custom was) to Mr. Rob. Drury for my fencing lesson, I found his lodgings empty.

They stood at the corner of Ship Street, as you turn into the Corn Market⁠—a low wainscoted chamber, ill-lighted but commodious. “He is off to see the show,” thought I as I looked about me; and finding an easy cushion in the window, sat down to await him. Where presently, being tired out (for I had been carrying a halberd all day with the scholars’ troop in Magdalen College Grove), and in despite of the open lattice, I fell sound asleep.

It must have been an hour after that I awoke with a chill (as was natural), and was stretching out a hand to pull the window close, but suddenly sat down again and fell to watching instead.

The window look’d down, at the height of ten feet or so, upon a bowling-green at the back of the Crown Tavern (kept by John Davenant, in the Corn Market), and across it to a rambling wing of the same inn; the fourth side⁠—that to my left⁠—being but an old wall, with a broad sycamore growing against it.

he pour’d a red syrup very gingerly, drop by drop, with the tail of his eye turn’d on his master’s face, that he might know when to cease.

Now it may be that my entrance upset this experiment in strong drinks. At any rate, I had scarce come to a stand about three paces inside the door, when the little old gentleman bounces up in a fury, kicks over his chair, hurls the nearest bottles to right and left, and sends the silver saucepan spinning across the table to my very feet, where it scalded me clean through the boot, and made me hop for pain.

“Spoil’d⁠—spoil’d!” he scream’d: “drench’d in filthy liquor, when it should have breath’d but a taste!”

And, to my amazement, he sprang on the strapping servant like a wildcat, and began to beat, cuff, and belabor him with all the strength of his puny limbs.

’Twas like a scene out of Bedlam. Yet all the while the girl lean’d quietly against the mantelshelf, and softly touched the strings of her instrument; while the servant took the rain of blows and slaps as though ’twere a summer shower, grinning all over his face, and making no resistance at all.

Then, as I stood dumb with perplexity, the old gentleman let go his hold of the fellow’s hair, and, dropping on the floor, began to roll about in a fit of coughing, the like of which no man can imagine. ’Twas hideous. He bark’d, and writhed, and bark’d again, till the disorder seem’d to search and rack every innermost inch of his small frame. And in the intervals of coughing his exclamations were terrible to listen to.

The man bent forward, displaying a huge, rounded face, very kindly about the eyes, and set atop of the oddest body in the world: for under a trunk extraordinary broad and strong, straddled a pair of legs that a baby would have disown’d⁠—so thin and stunted were they, and (to make it the queerer) ended in feet the most prodigious you ever saw.

As I said, this man lean’d forward, and shouted into my ear so that I fairly leap’d in the air⁠—

“My name’s Pottery⁠—Bill Pottery, cap’n o’ the Godsend⁠—an’ you can’t make me hear, not if you bust yoursel’!”

You may think this put me in a fine quandary.

“I be deaf as nails!” bawl’d he.

’Twas horrible: for the troopers (I thought) if anywhere near, could not miss hearing him. His voice shook the very rigging.

“… An’ o’ my crew the half ashore gettin’ drunk, an’ the half below in a very accomplished state o’ liquor: so there’s no chance for ’ee to speak!”

He paus’d a moment, then roared again⁠—

“What a pity! ’Cos you make me very curious⁠—that you do!”

Luckily, at this moment, Delia had the sense to put a finger to her lip.

“What’s thy need, young man⁠—that comest down to Temple wi’ sword a-danglin’?”

The girl was a half-naked savage, dress’d only in a strip of sacking that barely reach’d her knees, and a scant bodice of the same, lac’d in front with pack thread, that left her bosom and brown arms free. Yet she appear’d no whit abash’d, but lean’d on the plough-tail and regarded me, easy and frank, as a man would.

“Sell me a horse,” I blurted out: “Twenty guineas will I give for one within five minutes, and more if he be good! I ride on the King’s errand.”

“Then get thee back to thy master, an’ say, no horse shall he have o’ me⁠—nor any man that uses horseflesh so.” She pointed to Molly’s knees, that were bow’d and shaking, and the bloody froth dripping from her mouth.

’Twas a meagre, sharp-visag’d fellow with a grey chin beard like a billy goat’s; and (as fortune would have it) spying our approach, he picked out a mirror from his stock and holding it aloft, addressed us straight⁠—

“What have we here,” cries he, “but a pair o’ lovers coming? and what i’ my hand but a lover’s hourglass? Sure the stars of heav’n must have a hand in this conjuncture⁠—and only thirteen pence, my pretty fellow, for a glass that will tell the weather i’ your sweetheart’s face, and help make it fine.”

There were many country fellows with their maids in the crowd, that turned their heads at this address; and as usual the women began.

“ ’Tis Joan o’ the Tor!”

“Joan’s picked up wi’ a sweetheart⁠—tee-hee!⁠—an’ us reckoned her’d forsworn mankind!”

“Who is he?”

“Some furriner, sure: that likes garlic.”

“He’s bought her no ribbons yet.”

“How should he, poor lad; that can find no garments upon her to fasten ’em to?”

And so on, with a deal of spiteful laughter. Some of these sayings were half truth, no doubt: but the truthfullest word may be infelix. So noting a dark flush on Joan’s cheek, I thought to end the scene by taking the Cheap Jack’s mirror on the spot, to stop his tongue, and then drawing her away.

But in this I was a moment too late; for just as I reached up my hand with the thirteen pence, and the grinning fellow on