The Devil and His Boy Read Online Free PDF Page B

slime seemed to be oozing out.
    But if the mask had been designed to frighten Hawkins, this time it hadn’t worked. Quickly, he brought the horse under control, then called out, “What do you want?”
    “Your money!” Ratsey replied, his voice muffled behind the mask. “All of it. Your horse also. Your clothes. I like the look of your boots. And I think, while I’m at it, I may also take your life!”
    Hawkins said nothing. He jumped down from the horse, leaving Tom feeling very lost and alone. Ratsey glanced up, the blank fish eyes gazing at him. “Tom-Tom!” he exclaimed.
    “You know the boy?” Hawkins demanded.
    “Know him? Why, he and I are old mates. Drinking friends. And partners in crime.”
    Hawkins glanced back at Tom, uncertain for the first time. “You knew he would be here?” he asked.
    “I tried to warn you,” Tom answered, miserably.
    “Tried to warn him, Tom-Tom?” Ratsey shook his head. “Tut! Tut! That’s not loyal. That’s not nice. But enough of this idle chat. Let’s kill this fellow, whoever he is, and then we can ride back together…”
    But Hawkins had planted his feet firmly on the ground. He threw back his cloak, revealing his sword. He turned again to Ratsey. “Whatever you may say,” he said, “this boy isn’t with you. You and he are as different as night and day. I’m taking him with me. And I warn you now to let us pass…”
    “Please, Ratsey!” Tom called out, though he knew it was useless. He couldn’t even see Ratsey’s face but he knew that it would be as emotionless as the dead-fish mask. And he was right.
    “Please, Ratsey!” The highwayman echoed the words in a mocking falsetto voice.
    Hawkins unsheathed his sword with a great flourish, the metal whispering against the leather scabbard.
    Ratsey raised the weapon he was carrying and fired.
    It was an arquebus, a type of musket. Tom had never seen such a thing before, never heard anything as loud as the explosion it made. At first he wasn’t even sure what had happened. It seemed to him that Hawkins had thrown his own weapon away. Then the traveller turned and to Tom’s horror, there was a great hole in the centre of his chest and blood was pouring out, soaking down into his trousers, draining out of him even as Tom watched. Behind him, Ratsey had lowered his gun and was muttering something but Tom, his ears still ringing, couldn’t hear him. Smoke curled up from the muzzle of the arquebus. Hawkins staggered towards him.
    “To London,” he rasped. “Go to Moorfield…” He lifted a hand and with the last of his strength brought it down hard on the horse’s rump. Tom felt the horse leap forward and flailed out, searching for something to hold on to. Somehow his fingers found the horse’s mane and he knotted them into it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw William Hawkins collapse, lifeless, to the ground. And there, right in front of him, was Ratsey, the fish mask already off his head and his handsome eyes staring at him with something like disbelief.
    “Tom-Tom!” he called out.
    Tom couldn’t have stopped the horse even if he had wanted to. The next thing he knew, the two of them had left the ground, and soared over Ratsey. Ratsey yelled and dived to one side as the horse just missed him, its hind hooves grazing the side of his face. Tom was yelling too. He seemed to be flying. Then there was a great crash as the horse hit the ground again and if Tom’s hands hadn’t been buried in the mane he would have been torn loose from the saddle. Even so the breath was punched out of him and it felt as if every bone in his body had been rattled loose. Slipping first one way, then the other, he desperately clung on as the horse thundered through the wood, swerving past the trees, leaving its dead master in the mud behind.
    As the sun set that evening, three people sat round a table in the Pig’s Head. None of them were speaking. They had not spoken for an hour.
    Sebastian Slope was smoking a pipe that