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"Boldly said, and I believe thee, whether thy small headpiece be
sound or cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy
father or no, 'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee
and abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to bide with
me."
"I do, I do--I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I
will go with him."
"Then 'tis settled, and there is nought more to say."
"We will see, as to that!" exclaimed John Canty, striding past
Hendon to get at the boy; "by force shall he--"
"If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee
like a goose!" said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand
upon his sword hilt. Canty drew back. "Now mark ye," continued
Hendon, "I took this lad under my protection when a mob of such as
thou would have mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I
will desert him now to a worser fate?--for whether thou art his
father or no--and sooth to say, I think it is a lie--a decent
swift death were better for such a lad than life in such brute
hands as thine. So go thy ways, and set quick about it, for I
like not much bandying of words, being not over-patient in my
nature."
John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was
swallowed from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flights
of stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to
be sent thither. It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and
some odds and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted
by a couple of sickly candles. The little King dragged himself to
the bed and lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and
fatigue. He had been on his feet a good part of a day and a night
(for it was now two or three o'clock in the morning), and had
eaten nothing meantime. He murmured drowsily--
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