thered in wards like these.

In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mackerel-heads and
herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits of whitebait stood
fermenting in the sun, the bandy-legged man turned suddenly into a dingy
court, and when Nick reached the corner of the entry-way was gone as
though the earth had swallowed him.

Nick stopped dismayed, and looked about, His forehead was wet and his
breath was gone. He had no idea where they were, but it was a dismal
hole. Six forbidding doorways led off from the unkempt court, and a
rotting stairway sagged along the wall. A crop-eared dog, that lay in
the sun beside a broken cart, sprang up with its hair all pointing to
its head, and snarled at him with a vicious grin. "Begone, thou cur!" he
cried, and let drive with a stone. The dog ran under the cart, and
crouched there barking at him.

Through an open door beyond there came a sound of voices as of people in
some further thoroughfare. Perchance the bandy-legged man had passed
that way? He ran across the court, and up the steps; but came back
faster than he went, for the passageway there was blind and black, a
place unspeakable for dirt, and filled with people past description. A
woman peered out after him with red eyes blinking in the sun. "Ods
bobs!" she croaked, "a pretty thing! Come hither, knave; I want the
buckle off thy cloak."

Nick, shuddering, started for the street. But just as he reached the
entry-port a door in the courtyard opened, and the bandy-legged man came
out with a bag upon his back, leading Cicely by the hand.

Seeing Nick, he gave a cry, believing himself pursued, and made for the
open door again; but almost instantly perceiving the boy to be alone,
slammed shut the door and followed him instead, dragging Cicely over the
stones, and shouting hoarsely, "Stop there! stop!"

Nick's heart came up in his very throat. His legs went water-weak. He
ran for the open thoroughfare without once looking back. Yet while he
ran he heard Cicely cry out suddenly in pain, "Oh, Gregory, Gregory,
thou art hurting me so!" and at the sound the voice of Gaston Carew rang
like a bugle in his ears: "Thou'lt keep my Cicely from harm?" He stopped
as short as if he had butted his head against a wall, whirled on his
heel, stood fast, though he was much afraid; and standing there, his
head thrown back and his fists tight clenched, as if some one had struck
him in the face, he waited until they came to where he wa