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Among them was one Patrick Girdwood, the deacon of the craft, a most comical character, so vogie of his honours and dignities in the town council that he could not get the knight told often enough what a load aboon the burden he had in keeping a' things douce and in right regulation amang the bailies.
Mrs Girdwood and her daughters having returned home, in a most uneasy state of mind on the lassie's account, the deacon himself came over to me, to consult what he ought to do as the head of a family. But I advised him to wait till Jeanie cast up, which was the next morning.
One hand was in his pocket; the other was at his face, the thumb pointing at his nose, the fingers outstretched towards the audience. "What do you think of that?" asked Harry Girdwood, in low tones. "Marvellous!" cried Mole; "that is Harkaway and Harvey, sure enough. Harvey has got something the matter with his nose." "No," whispered Harry, "he's taking a sight at you." "So he is.
A third was a sectional view, drawn roughly, but upon architectural principles, and marked with initial letters of reference. "This is a rum go," said Harry Girdwood, laughing. Young Jack had dropped from his perch and joined his fellow-prisoner on terra firma, and together they poured over these singular rags.
He walked up the deck with a certain apparent unsteadiness of gait. "Old Mole is half seas over," said Harry Girdwood. "I'll tell you what. Wouldn't it be a lark if we could get him to strut up and down with Nero, without knowing it?" "That's more easily said than done, I imagine." "Wait and see." They crept back out of sight as Mr. Mole passed along.
And then a detachment of gendarmes dashed up into the open at a swinging trot. And who headed this very welcome party? Who but two youths that have been heard of before in these pages? Who indeed but young Jack Harkaway and his friend Harry Girdwood? "Hurrah!" "Give them another." "Load again." "Another volley."
"I feel that I am going off the hooks," he would mutter to himself, grimly, from time to time. "I shall put my old enemy Jack Harkaway to the trouble of burying me after all. "Well, one good turn deserves another. I buried his brat, he shall bury me. Only he won't get as much for doing for me as I did for his son." He little dreamt that both young Jack and Harry Girdwood were upon that ship.
Mrs Girdwood had fee'd one Jeanie Tirlet, and soon after she came home, the mistress had her big summer washing at the public washing-house on the green all the best of her sheets and napery both what had been used in the course of the winter, and what was only washed to keep clear in the colour, were in the boyne.
"Ahem!" said Mr, Mole, "it didn't want a wizard to tell me that." "What, sir?" demanded Harry, innocently. "About my wooden legs; my infirmity is visible to every body." "But how could he know?" "By looking." "Still sceptical," said the wizard, who had very sharp ears; "shall I consult my book again?" "No, no," said Mr. Mole, uneasily. But Harry Girdwood said "Yes."
Perhaps not. If not, they would be in as much peril as they were already. Nay, more. He guessed shrewdly enough that once they had received such a handsome sum as five hundred pounds, they would think that they had drained him dry, or as nearly so as it was possible to arrive at, and so might make short work of young Jack and Harry Girdwood. What was to be done? He could not say.
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