The Iron Master Read Online Free PDF Page B

consideration — provided it had been formed by serious thought — but this conversation sounded highly seditious, and smacked of revolution, and he was somewhat amazed that nobody went for the constable. By and by he folded his newspaper, paid his reckoning, and wandered out again into Covent Garden feeling braver and better for his breakfast. He buttoned his coat over his waistcoat to protect the silver watch, took a firm grip of his wicker basket and carpet-bag, and headed for the Strand: mindful that he must now keep the dome of St Paul’s Church in front of him. Though anxious to heed the barber’s warning, he found himself in narrow streets from time to time, which he trod cautiously for a number of reasons. Chamber-pots were being emptied from high windows. Little piles of excrement stood outside the doors, waiting for the farmer’s cart to collect on his way back from market. The stench from the open gutter was appalling, but dirty children were floating paper boats down its foul stream and splashing through it in their play. There was nothing childlike about these wretched creatures. Though the poor of Garth village could show ribs as sharp as theirs, and shout abuse as rudely, there was a difference between the city and the country starveling. In London they were unknown members of the army of want, whereas even the feeblest child in Garth belonged to the people and the place.
    Morning had come, and the city was wide-awake and hustling. The rumble of iron-clad wheels and iron-shod hooves on the cobbles assaulted him, and against this constant roar of traffic came the piercing cries of street vendors bent on selling a multitude of wares. A Bow Street Runner passed William, looking supercilious in his scarlet uniform; and soon after him an impudent beggar who actually caught hold of William’s coat as he pleaded for money, and must be thrust aside before he would desist. Then once more the young man lost his way in the press of people, so busy staring at the splendours in shop windows, and found himself on the Thames bank, all mud and ships and grey water. One stench cast out another, one clamour outdid the other, and everywhere were crowds in a hurry to get somewhere else. In his weariness and excitement William felt the great city like a single bully at his heels, dogging him wherever he went, bent on mindless pursuit. It compelled him to take notice, and was indifferent to his opinion. It showed him extreme poverty and extreme wealth, without caring a fig for either. It was at once the most magnificent place he had ever experienced, and the most arrogant, and the most brutal.
    Gathering his wits, he stopped short in his ramblings, checked the progress of an inky printer’s boy who was dodging through the throng, and followed him meekly into Fleet Street
    ‘Third left!’ said the lad, and took William’s copper without thanking him.
    The traveller turned sharply down into an airless court full of overhanging houses. On the wall opposite, a plaque read LOCK-YARD. Close by, a shabby swinging sign bore the familiar name of LONGE & SON, Printers, Publishers, Booksellers. He had arrived at last.
    The door stood open, for air or customers, and William stepped inside. A tawny man of middle height and slender build was bending over a press. An apron covered his shirt and breeches. His sleeves were rolled above the elbows, his Cadogan wig hung on a peg, a tankard of ale stood near at hand. He was just past thirty but his movements were those of a youth: eager, supple, blithe. He was humming to himself as he worked, completely absorbed in his task, utterly self-contained. Then, aware of a shadow across his threshold, he looked up in quick good-humoured question.
    ‘Mr Tobias Longe?’ William asked, uncertain of his reception (and wondering whether he should shake the seducer’s hand or kick him down his own front doorsteps). ‘I am Charlotte’s elder brother, sir. I am William Howarth.’
    Toby Longe