"Sure, your worship."

"Collect thy scattered wits--bethink thee--take time, man."

After a moment's thought, the servant said--

"When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as the two
stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man plunged out
from some near place; and just as he was joining them--"

"What THEN?--out with it!" thundered the impatient Hendon, interrupting.

"Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I saw no
more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that
the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to
witness that to blame ME for that miscarriage were like holding the
unborn babe to judgment for sins com--"

"Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! Whither art
flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they toward Southwark?"

"Even so, your worship--for, as I said before, as to that detestable
joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--"

"Art here YET! And prating still! Vanish, lest I throttle thee!" The
servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged
down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, "'Tis that scurvy
villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my poor little
mad master--it is a bitter thought--and I had come to love thee so! No!