All this I watched with considerable interest. Much as I would have liked to move closer so that I might hear what was discussed among them, I dared not for fear of being recognized. Nevertheless, I could well suppose that a sort of game was being played between them, wherein some hint of the presumed association was given by, say, a porter of Merton College, and was immediately picked up by the claimant with great enthusiasm and much laughter; the porter joins in, supplying more details of some anecdote or adventure; and soon both are joyfully reminiscing, old chums reunited at last. It was indeed a difficult sort of game to play. I could see, too, that it depended greatly upon the claimant’s ability to improvise and even more upon his charm. There could be no doubt that with his quick wits, ingratiating manner, and ready smile, the claimant was a very charming fellow.
There was, however, the matter of those pints of ale. Soon after their arrival, while all the rest were quaffing and conversing, Eli Bolt pulled a sheaf of papers from a bag he had rested upon a nearby table. He called out to the innkeeper for pen and ink, and they came forthwith. Then did he beckon to the five who surrounded the claimant, and they came obediently and signed the forms where they were asked. I thought critically of this and decided that one could not honestly say that their signatures had been paid for with pints of ale, for, after all, the drinks had appeared before they were asked to sign the affidavits, but it did seem to be pushing the mark a bit. I wondered what Mr. Bolt might have done if those at the Swan had been less responsive. Perhaps then there would have been another round called for, perhaps gin, as well. Would they go so far as to offer payment in coin? That seemed unlikely — and ultimately unnecessary.
Bolt and the claimant made ready to leave. Clearly, they had no wish to remain at the Swan once they had completed their business.
Did that mean they would be on to another such tavern or inn, where they might collect more signatures? Now that I had watched them in pursuit of their objective, I wished to see them again. And so, as Bolt called over the server and settled with him, I beckoned the barman to me and paid for the cups of coffee I had drunk and the meat pie I had eaten. I was in no hurry to go and would certainly not leave before the two who held my attention so completely. Nevertheless, I wished to be prepared to leave swiftly once they had departed, for I had decided to do what I had earlier determined not to do: I would follow them to their next destination.
They left with a great swagger and to a loud chorus of goodbyes. Had any of the crowd at the Swan been questioned on the matter, all would have said that both Eli Bolt and the one who presented himself as Lawrence Paltrow were fine fellows indeed; that is certainly how they would be remembered here. I myself watched them go as I hung back in the shadows, hiding from their glance. Once they had disappeared through the door, I forced myself to wait a full minute, counting the seconds, before I left in pursuit of them. Then did I follow quite hastily. Yet, when I came to the door of the Swan and made to pass through it, I found my way blocked by one seeking entrance. He was enormously fat, so large that he quite filled the doorway. I had no choice but to retreat, allowing him passage through the portal and past me; only after he had squeezed by could I then make my exit. When I did, I fairly leapt out into the street and peered left and right — but all to no avail. Neither Mr. Bolt nor the claimant was anywhere to be seen. Both were notably tall men — tall enough so that I was certain I would see their heads and hats bobbing above the crowd that moved along the walkway. In desperation I ran to the nearest corner, which happened to be St. Aldgate’s, and looked it up and down — but again I saw nothing or no one worthy of pursuit. How could they have disappeared so completely in little more than a minute’s time?
The day was dimming to dusk. Yet the failing light would not conceal two as large as they. What they had done with themselves was, and would, remain a mystery to me.
Where would I now take myself? It was perhaps a bit early to seek Sir John at the Blue Boar Inn, so perhaps it mattered little where I went. But I tucked my two books under my arm and set off down St. Aldgate’s in the direction of High Street and the inn. As I approached it, I found myself opposite Christ Church College and was suddenly beset by a great gang of shouting undergraduates. They came running out of the entrance as if they had of a sudden been liberated from some frightful prison. All were dressed in black gowns and wore the distinctive caps that marked them for who they were, what they were, and where they were from. Without quite intending it so, nor on the other hand offering much resistance, I found myself swept along by this noisy crowd of young men in black and into Mother Radford’s Ale House, which was round a dark corner and up what looked to be a blind alley.
Though from its shadowed exterior Mother Radford’s may have seemed the least inviting of drinking places, inside it was warm, bright, and relatively empty (though filling fast). A team of giggling serving maids was bustling about the tables, and a sour-faced harridan, whom I took to be Mother Radford herself, occupied her station behind the bar.
The sudden arrival of well over thirty young scholars altered the temper of the place quite radically, for with them they brought their shouting and laughter, and their wild high spirits. They were no more than settled at their places around the tables and at the bar, when a powerful rhythmic chanting went up from them. They beat in time with fists and palms to a kind of savage snarling, which at first eluded me completely. It was, however, repeated again and again, so that I was at least able to divine that what I thought to be simply noise was, after all, Latin noise. They shouted it out. They roared it forth. They ended their chant only when the serving maids reached them with foaming pints of ale.
It occurred to me as I witnessed this curious ceremony that this was the first true experience I had had of the student body. Oxford had until then been no more than a great reputation and a number of very impressive structures. My only glimpse of the university’s faculty, in the person of the Reverend Titus Talmadge, had certainly not impressed me favorably. And this view of those who attended the lectures, stood for the university’s degrees, and would later enjoy preferment in the professions and in politics seemed to me then even less impressive. In truth, as I looked about me, they seemed little more than a loutish, ale-swilling mob.
“Here, you, town boy, move away, will you?”
The blunt arrogance of that request was voiced, as you might suppose, in a sneering and aggressive tone. There could be no doubt that it was directed at me. I turned to the one who had spoken and found him to be another of that black-robed, noisy crew. No more than two or three years my senior, he was plump in the way that a spoiled child is plump; he gestured me away impatiently from my place at the bar with a stubby hand that had never known a day’s hard work.
“I beg your pardon,” said I in a manner which made it plain that I had heard him aright but had not the slightest intention of budging from my place.
“You,” said he, leaning toward me in a manner meant to be menacing, “move! Is that plain enough? We claim this section as our own. If you do not obey at once, I shall be forced to thrash you.”
I turned toward him but kept my backside firmly planted upon the stool. I noted that the aggressor had a friend behind him, one of about the same size and shape as he was. I decided to make it plain to them who I was and where I was from, and thus warn them away:
“My good fellow,” said I, ‘you seem to have the mistaken notion that I am a town boy — that is, from here in this benighted, badsmelling borough they call Oxen-ford, or some such. That, thank God, is not the case. I am from the city — specifically Westminster, in what you no doubt think of as London. I do not fear you, young sir, for where I come from we roast young capons such as yourself — and eat them for dinner.”