Free A Spectacle of Corruption by David Liss Page A

concluded, pulled me along once more. Though I wished to say to Dogmill that he might make an effort to stomp upon me any time he chose, I held my tongue instead. Doing so would gain me little, and I did not desire to put Moore in a bad position. He wished only to save face before his patron, and having to balance the risk of discommoding me and discommoding Dogmill, he had surely made the right choice. He could explain himself to me and know I would hold no grudge. Dogmill struck me as not the sort of man with whom one equivocates.
    Once outside, I observed the redness of his face. “Truly, I am sorry, Mr. Weaver, but I hadn’t any inkling that he would take a dislike to you. When Mr. Dogmill takes a dislike to someone, it can be terrible ugly.”
    “What with stomping on hands and such.”
    “It’s no jest, I promise you. He did it once to a stockjobber who had pulled a trick upon him. That fellow can no more pick up a pen now than can a duck. And he does not always reserve his temper for those who do him deliberate harm. I observed once that he punched a whore in the face for meddling with his breeches when he announced he would be left alone. Punched her in the face; you saw those anvil hands of his. Poor little doxy. Died of it, you know.”
    “I ought to count myself lucky, I suppose.”
    He shook his head. “I wish you had told me you wanted to speak to him of a matter he would not like. I’d have advised you not to waste your time, or at the very least to conduct your business in someone else’s coffeehouse. Dogmill is monstrous brutal, but he pays his debts in a timely way, and he brings business with him.”
    “I understand. I shall find some other time to speak with him, then.”
    Moore held out the coin. “I cannot in good conscience keep this.”
    I laughed. “You’ve earned it. I’ll not take your coin.”
    “Certain, are ye?”
    “Please, Moore. You did your best to serve me.”
    He nodded and then, eyeing a foul puddle of mud and filth, approached, squatted down, and took a handful, with which he splashed himself repeatedly. He stood and turned to me with a grin, his clothes now wet with refuse, his face smeared black and filthy. “I don’t even know that he heard your name or looked upon your face, but presuming he did, I cannot very well expect him to believe that I vanquished Benjamin Weaver without looking the worse for it. Good day to you, sir.”
     
    I did not believe myself to be done with Dogmill, and indeed I was not, but I chose to pursue less obstinate methods for the nonce while I considered how I might reapply my efforts with the merchant. And so it was off to meet with John Littleton. Though I have ever been inclined to plain attire, I admit to a preference for superior materials and tailoring, but before we went in search of Greenbill Billy, Littleton suggested my usual clothing would generate too much notice down by the quays. I therefore dressed myself in worn trousers and a stained blouse with an old wool jacket. I pushed my hair under an old hat, wide in both brim and crown, and I even applied a bit of paint to further darken a complexion already somewhat dusky by pallid British standards. Examining myself in the mirror, I congratulated myself on looking almost unfamiliar—every bit the Wapping lascar.
    I arranged to meet Littleton at his home, a decrepit room he rented on Bostwick Street, and from there we walked to the Goose and Wheel. I had only seen him before at Ufford’s table, so when he met me at the door I was surprised to find him taller than I had imagined, and broader at the shoulder than I before noticed. I had thought of him as a frail fellow moving hard into the final portion of his life, but now he looked to me more rugged, one of those tough men who cling tenaciously to the strength of their youth.
    “I ain’t looking forward to this,” Littleton said as we walked, making our way past the beggars and the gin drinkers sitting out in the cold. A man