The
marksman's thumb represents the market square, and the arrow the line of
the east gate street.
No cat in the town knew it better than I did, or could travel it better
in the dark. Indeed, our only danger now came from the moon, but,
fortunately, she had not yet climbed very high. Mistress Waynflete placed
her arm in mine and we turned to the right, away from the still noisy and
crowded main street. We passed an ale-house bursting with customers, the
central figure among whom, plainly visible from the street, was Pippin
Pat, an Irishman with so huge a head that he had become a celebrity under
this name for miles around. He had made himself rolling drunk and,
suitably to the occasion, had been made into a Highlander by the simple
process of robbing him of his breeches and rubbing his head with ruddle.
He was a sorry sight enough, but, the main thing, he had attracted an
enormous company. I rejoiced to see him, for it meant that the wicket of
his master's tanyard, half a stone's throw ahead, would be unbolted. This
would save us a longish detour and lessen the danger of being observed.
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