The leader tossed the emptied noose back down, with a kid-gloved hand. "Welcome, sir, to the august company of the vanguard of mankind. Permit me, under the circumstances, to introduce myself. I am the Marquess of Hastings." The self-styled Marquess bowed slightly, then struck a pose, chin cocked, one gloved fist poised on his hip.
Mallory saw that the fellow was in earnest.
The title of Marquess was a relic from the years before the Rads, yet here was a young pretender of some sort, a living fossil, alive and in command of this vipers' crew! Mallory could scarcely have been more startled to see a young plesiosaur lift its snaky head from the depths of the stinking Thames.
"Lads," drawled the young Marquess, "pour some of that Cologne over our pungent friend! If he does anything stupid, you know what to do."
"Shoot him?" someone blurted, idiotically.
The Marquess winced elaboratelyan actor's gesture indicating a breach of taste. A boy in a stolen copper's helmet and a ripped silk shirt slopped chill Cologne from a cut-glass bottle over Mallory's bare neck and back.
Brian rose next, at the end of the rope. "Those are soldier's trousers, under that muck," the Marquess observed. "Absent without leave, comrade?"
Brian shrugged mutely.
"Enjoying your little holiday in London?" Brian nodded like a fool.
"Give this filthy personage new trousers," the Marquess commanded. He looked about his little troupe of six, who were once again lowering the line with the clumsy enthusiasm of a May Day tug-o'-war. "Comrade Shillibeer! You're about this man's sizegive him your trousers."
"Aw, but Comrade Markiss"
"To each according to his needs. Comrade Shillibeer! Doff the garment at once."
Shillibeer climbed clumsily out of his trousers and proffered them up. He wore no undergarments, and he tugged nervously at his shirt-tails with one hand.
"For heaven's sake," the Marquess said quizzically, "must I tell you sheepish dullards every little thing?" He pointed sharply to Mallory. "You! Take Shillibeer's place and haul that line. You, soldierno longer the oppressor's minion, but a man entirely free!put on Shillibeer's trousers. Comrade Shillibeer, quit that wriggling. You have nothing of which to be ashamed. You may go at once to the general depot for fresh garments."
"Thank you, sir!"
" 'Comrade,' " the Marquess corrected. "Get something nice, Shillibeer. And bring more Cologne."
Tom came up next. Mallory helping with the heaving. The bandits were badly hampered by their clattering, poorly slung rifles. These were general-issue Victoria carbines, heavy single-shot relics now consigned to native troops in the Colonies. The rioters were rendered yet more clumsy by fearsome kitchen-knives and home-made truncheons, stuffed at random into their looted finery. They wore gaudy scarves, sweaty silks, Army bandoliers, and more resembled Turkish bashi-bazouks than any kind of Briton. Two of them were scarcely more than boys, while another pair were thick-set, lumpish, thievish rascals, sodden with drink. The last, to Mallory's continued surprise, was a slender, silent Negro, in the quiet dress of a gentleman's valet.
The Marquess of Hastings examined Tom. "What is your name?"
"Tom, sir."
The Marquess pointed. "What's his name?"
"Ned."
"And him?"
"Brian," Tom said. "I think"
"And what, pray, is the name of that grim-looking cove below, looking so awfully much like a copper?"
Tom hesitated.
"Don't you know?"
"He never gave us any proper name," Mallory broke in. "We just call him the Reverend."
The Marquess glared at Mallory.
"We only met the Reverend today, sir," Tom apologized glibly. "We ain't what you'd call bosom pals."
"Suppose we leave him down there, then," the Marquess suggested.
"Haul him up," Mallory countered. "He's clever."
"Oh? And what of you, Comrade Ned? You're not half so stupid as you pretend, it seems. And you're not very drunk."
"Then give me a drink," Mallory said boldly. "And I could do with one of them carbines too, if you're divvying loot."
The Marquess took note of Mallory's pistol, then cocked his masked head and winked, as if they were sharing a joke.
"All things in time, my eager friend," he said. He waved his neat gloved hand. "Very well. Haul him."
Fraser rose within the noose. "So, 'Reverend,' " said the Marquess, "what, pray, might be your denomination?"
Fraser shook the rope loose and stepped out. "What do you think, guv'nor? I'm a bleedin' Quaker!"
There was evil laughter. Fraser, pretending a loutish pleasure at the others' fun, shook his gingham-masked head. "No," he rasped, "no Quaker I, for I'm a Panty-sucker!"
The laughter stopped short.
"Panty-sucker," Fraser insisted, "one o' them yellow-back Yankee ranters"
The Marquess broke in with chill precision. "A Pantisocrat, do you mean? That is to say, a lay preacher of the Susquehanna Phalanstery?"
Fraser stared dumbly at the Marquess.
"I refer to the Utopian doctrines of Professor Coleridge and Reverend Wordsworth," the Marquess persisted, with gentle menace.