There was a moment’s breathless and disappointed silence. There were swift actions, too: a Kanaka crawled out upon the bowsprit to make taut a slack stay, while two others with pulley-blocks swarmed aloft. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. It was John Diedermayer, who had been transformed into a young scholar with a large pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses on. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour.
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