'You see?' continued Fowler. 'You cannot stop helping others.'

'The lad would have been hit by that wheel,' said Nicholas seriously. 'Too many people are crushed to death in the traffic here. I'm glad to be able to save one victim.'

'One victim? You save dozens every day'

'Do I?'

'Yes!' urged Fowler. 'And they are not just careless lads on London Bridge. How many times have you plucked our apprentices from beneath the wheels of that sodden-headed, sheep-faced sharer called Barnaby Gill? That standing yard between his little legs will do far more damage than a heavy cart. You've saved Dick

Honeydew and the others from being run down. You've saved Westfield's Men no end of times. Most of all, you save me.'

'From Master Gill?' teased Nicholas.

'What!' roared Fowler with jovial rage. 'Just let the fellow thrust his weapon at me. I'll saw it off like a log, so I will, and use it as a club to beat his scurvy head. I'd make him dance a jig, I warrant you!'

'Even I could not save you then, Will.'

They left the bridge, entered Southwark and swung right into Bankside. The Thames was a huge, rippling presence beside them. Nicholas had been invited to a tavern by Fowler in order to meet an old friend of the latter. From the way that his companion had been flattering him, Nicholas knew that he wanted a favour and it was not difficult to guess what that favour was.

'What is your friend's name, Will?'

'Samuel Ruff. As stout a fellow as you could find.'

'How long is it since you last saw him?'