The Young Apprentice; or, The Watch-Words of Old London — page 23: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

i) THE YOUNG APPRENTICE; OR, His glanee was so earnest that the young girl rose, pouting. + Now you make me angry,” she said. And then she walked out of the room with such an affectation of her sister’s dignity and hauteur that Harold could scarcely repress a smile, full as his heart was. Yet there was a pleasurable emotion in his breast. He felt instinctively that she had an interest, if nothing more, in his welfare. CHAPTER V. BEN FIREBRACE, Axsout four miles from what is now known as St. John’s Wood—that is to say, the road towards FKinchley—stood an old hostelry which was known for a long distance round and by all those who passed along the highway as Martin's Ferry House. : Ita real sign was the Red Croas Knight ; but I suppose old Hezekiah Martin and his friends thought this somewhat too romantic and high- sounding a title, so that, although the terrific- looking knight with his angular form and his white shield, and ‘his blood-red croas, still ap- peared on the swinging signboard, the inn was always spoken of, as I have said, as the Ferry House. It was a queer old building, erected on the edge of a broad stream where both horses and vehicles had to cross the shallow water. | The front of it faced the high road, was of black boarding with quaint diamond-paned win- dows and a wide portal almost too low to allow any one to pass under it. There were rough wooden seats and tables before the door, and the swinging sign above them, and now and then on festive occasions a fag waved over the building. n the right side of the building ran the stream over whose margin nodded the tall reeds and rushes, and cn the left side was a dark, un- wholesome-looking pool where ducks and pigs luxuriated, and which was too deep to be drained. It was generally well frequented, this same Ferry House, and on the evening when we intro- duce it to our readers, the tap-room was crammed to overflowing with soldiers. It was the time now when the power of Charles Stuart began to decline, After his first successes, which had made him too confident of the future, he had suffered ter- rible reverses ; and since Oliver Cromwell] had assumed the command, his armies had been driven in helpless rout from one field after another. In those days when every other man you met was a soldier, you could not enter an inn without seeing One room or another filled with the noisy fellows. | _ Oaths, songa, rattling of iron scabbards, and tinkling of glasses, such was the mixture of sounds which resounded from the tap-room of the Ferry House on this evening. It was principally the Republican troopers who honoured old Hezekiah Martin with their cus- tom, although he professed no attachment either ‘ ° king or parliament, and treated both aides the mé, On this occasion over twenty men were gathered together in the room awaiting the arrival of their captain, who had departed on some secret errand. One of them, seated near the log fire which blazed up the ample chimney, was a tall, broadly- built young man, with jet black hair and a pair of bright black eyes, who was a great favoyrite With bis companions as he was with his captain. He had been for some time seated there smoking and eyeing the door as if watching for some one, “ Why, Ben Firebrace,” cried one of his com- rades, “you're dull to-night. Wake up, man, and give us one of your rattling songs.” ' ‘* Not to-night, Barlow,’ sad the young twooper, “T’m not in tune or trim for singing.” “Drink, then, and make yourself merry,” returned Edgar Barlow, passing him a foaming tankard of strong ale. Ben drank a little, and then replaced it on the table, but never a stave of any song sang he. ‘Why, Dadley,” said Barlow, “did you ever see Ben in such a guise as this? He is acting the monk.” } ‘‘ Monk,” exclaimed the other, with a loud laugh, “not he, not he ; it’s not a monk’s place he wants, it isa husband's. Eh, Master Fire- brace, am I not right? Do you fancy I've not caught your sly glances at the door? Ah, it's Mistress Lizzie Woodhead you're looking after. Isn’t that it, Harry?” So saying Dudley turned round laughingly to a young man who was sitting near him on the side of the fire-place opposite to that occupied by Ben Firebrace. He was a tall, pale-faced individual, about twenty, with a grave and somewhat morose look about his face, and he had sat for some time gazing at Ben the trooper with anything but friendly glances. This was Harry Martin, the son of the land- ord, He pretended to join in the laugh when Dudley the trooper clapped him on the shoulder, but any one might have seen that it was no hearty merriment. Scarcely had the laugh died away, when the door was opened slightly, and just a glimpse of a pretty face and figure could be seen. It was only a glimpse, however, for she was gone in a moment, Not, however, before Ben Firebrace had seen her. A flush mantled over his cheeks, and he rose at once and quitted the room. Once outside he passed by the bar, and entered a kitchen at the back, where only one person was sitting. This was Lizzie Woodhead. She was a pretty, fair-haired girl, about nive- teen, with arch blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, and a cherry mouth, with a petite graceful figure. Ben Firebrace rushed loviogly to her, and threw himself on one knee before her like a cavalier of old. “ Dear Lizzie,” he said, ‘‘ how happy, yet how sorrowful I feel.” ' “ Why sorrowful, Ben?” returned the girl, smoothing his dark locks off his bronzed fore- ead. “* Because to-morrow we start for the north, GONE DOO