girl herself," Gay lowered his voice. "You wouldn't have her be
like Sally Salisbury, Jemmy, would you? She has a good and innocent
nature. It will be torn to tatters if she be not looked after now. No.
Neither you nor Dick Leveridge will talk me out of my intent. Do you see
what misguided youth may easily come to? Look at your friend Vane."

Gay pointed to the sleeping young man.

"I know--I know. The young fool," returned Spiller a little angrily.
"Wine is Lancelot Vane's only weakness--well, not the only one, any
pretty face turns his head."

"He's not the worse for that provided a good heart goes with the pretty
face."

"Aye, _if_."

"Look after him then. When he awakens from his drunken fit he'll be like
clay in the hands of the potters."

"Faith, you're right, Mr. Gay, but there's one thing that'll protect
him--his empty purse. I doubt if he has a stiver left. I know he drew
some money from the _Craftsman_ yesterday."

"What, does he write for that scurrilous, venomous print?" cried Gay,
visibly disturbed.

"Not of his own will. He hates the paper and he hates Amherst, who owns
it. But what is a man to do when poverty knocks at the door?"

"That may be. Still--I wish he had nothing to do with that abusive
fellow, Nicholas Amherst, who calls himself 'Caleb D'Anvers,' why I know
not, unless he's ashamed of the name his father gave him. Do you know
that the _Craftsman_ is always attacking my friends, Mr. Pope, Dr.
Swift, Dr. Arbuthnot? As for myself--but that's no matter."

"Oh, Amherst's a gadfly, no doubt. But your friends can take care of
themselves. For every blow they get they can if it so pleases them, give
two in return."

"That's true, and I'll say nothing more. I wish your friend well rid of
the rascally D'Anvers. Look after him, Jemmy. Come Polly--let us to your
mother."

Both Spiller and Leveridge saw that Gay was not to be turned from his
resolution to help the girl, and presently she and her new found friend
were threading their way through a network of courts and alleys finally
emerging into the squalid thoroughfare between New Street and Chandos
Street.

The dirt and the poverty-stricken aspect of the locality did not deter
the poet from his intention. Bedfordbury was not worse than St. Giles.
The girl led him to a shabby coffee shop from the interior of which
issued a hot and sickly air.

"That's mother," she whispered when they were in the doorway.

A buxom woman not too neatly d