CHAPTER 3 Tom’s Meeting with the Prince

      Tom got up hungry, and sauntered hungry away, but with his thoughts busy with the shadowy splendors of his night’s dreams. He wandered here and there in the city, hardly noticing where he was going, or what was happening around him. People jostled him and some gave him rough speech; but it was all lost on the musing boy. By and by he found himself at Temple Bar, the farthest from home he had ever traveled in that direction. He stopped and considered a moment, then fell into his imaginings again, and passed on outside the walls of London. The Strand had ceased to be a country road then, and regarded itself as a street, but by a strained construction; for, though there was a tolerably compact row of houses on one side of it, there were only some scattering great buildings on the other, these being palaces of rich nobles, with ample and beautiful grounds stretching to the river—grounds that are now closely packed with grim acres of brick and stone.

      Tom discovered Charing Village presently, and rested himself at the beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier days; then idled down a quiet, lovely road, past the great cardinal’s stately palace, toward a far more mighty and majestic palace beyond—Westminster. Tom stared in glad wonder at the vast pile of masonry, the wide-spreading wings, the frowning bastions and turrets, the huge stone gateway, with its gilded bars and its magnificent array of colossal granite lions, and the other signs and symbols of English royalty. Was the desire of his soul to be satisfied at last? Here, indeed, was a king’s palace. Might he not hope to see a prince now—a prince of flesh and blood, if Heaven were willing?

      At each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue, that is to say, an erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms, clad from head to heel in shining steel armor. At a respectful distance were many country-folk, and people from the city, waiting for any chance glimpse of royalty that might offer. Splendid carriages, with splendid people in them and splendid servants outside, were arriving and departing by several other noble gateways that pierced the royal inclosure.

      Poor little Tom, in his rags, approached, and was moving slowly and timidly past the sentinels, with a beating heart and a rising hope, when all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a spectacle that almost made him shout for joy. Within was a comely boy, tanned and brown with sturdy outdoor sports and exercises, whose clothing was all of lovely silks and satins, shining with jewels; at his hip a little jeweled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet, with red heels; and on his head a jaunty crimson cap, with drooping plumes fastened with a great sparkling gem. Several gorgeous gentlemen stood near—his servants, without a doubt. Oh! he was a prince—a prince, a living prince, a real prince—without the shadow of a question; and the prayer of the pauper boy’s heart was answered at last.

      Tom’s breath came quick and short with excitement, and his eyes grew big with wonder and delight. Everything gave way in his mind instantly to one desire: that was to get close to the prince, and have a good, devouring look at him. Before he knew what he was about, he had his face against the gate-bars. The next instant one of the soldiers snatched him rudely away, and sent him spinning among the gaping crowd of country gawks and London idlers. The soldier said:

      “Mind thy manners, thou young beggar!”

      The crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the gate with his face flushed, and his eyes flashing with indignation, and cried out:

      “How dar’st thou use a poor lad like that! How dar’st thou use the king my father’s meanest subject so! Open the gates, and let him in!”

      You should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then. You should have heard them cheer, and shout, “Long live the Prince of Wales!”

      The soldiers presented arms with their halberds, opened the gates, and presented again as the little Prince of Poverty passed in, in his fluttering rags, to join hands with the Prince of Limitless Plenty.

      Edward Tudor said:

      “Thou lookest tired and hungry; thou’st been treated ill. Come with me.”

      Half a dozen attendants sprang forward to—I don’t know what; interfere, no doubt. But they were waved aside with a right royal gesture, and they stopped stock still where they were, like so many statues. Edward took Tom to a rich apartment in the palace, which he called his cabinet. By his command a repast was brought such as Tom had never encountered before except in books. The prince, with princely delicacy and breeding, sent away the servants, so that his humble guest might not be embarrassed by their critical presence; then he sat near by, and asked questions while Tom ate.

      “What is thy name, lad?”

      “Tom Canty, an it please thee, sir.”

      “’Tis an odd one. Where dost live?”

      “In the city, please thee, sir. Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane.”

      “Offal Court! Truly, ’tis another odd one. Hast parents?”

      “Parents have I, sir, and a grandam likewise that is but indifferently precious to me, God forgive me if it be offense to say it—also twin sisters, Nan and Bet.”

      “Then is thy grandam not overkind to thee, I take it.”

      “Neither to any other is she, so please your worship. She hath a wicked heart, and worketh evil all her days.”

      “Doth she mistreat thee?”

      “There be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or overcome with drink; but when she hath her judgment clear again, she maketh it up to me with goodly beatings.”

      A fierce look came into the little prince’s eyes, and he cried out:

      “What! Beatings?”

      “Oh, indeed, yes, please you, sir.”

      “Beatings!—and thou so frail and little. Hark ye: before the night come, she shall hie her to the Tower. The king my father—”

      “In sooth, you forget, sir, her low degree. The Tower is for the great alone.”

      “True, indeed. I had not thought of that. I will consider of her punishment. Is thy father kind to thee?”

      “Not more than Gammer Canty, sir.”

      “Fathers be alike, mayhap. Mine hath not a doll’s temper. He smiteth with a heavy hand, yet spareth me: he spareth me not always with his tongue, though, sooth to say. How doth thy mother use thee?”

      “She is good, sir, and giveth me neither sorrow nor pain of any sort. And Nan and Bet are like to her in this.”

      “How old be these?”

      “Fifteen, an it please you, sir.”

      “The Lady Elizabeth, my sister, is fourteen, and the Lady Jane Grey, my cousin, is of mine own age, and comely and gracious withal; but my sister the Lady Mary, with her gloomy mien and—Look you: do thy sisters forbid their servants to smile, lest the sin destroy their souls?”

      “They? Oh, dost think, sir, that they have servants?”