He sat there on the edge of his seat, watching for a gap. Arrest for debt was very common—he had always been aware of it—had had several friends carried off to sponging-houses, from which they wrote the most piteous appeals—but it had never happened to him personally and his knowledge of the process and of the law was vague. Sundays were safe, he was sure, and perhaps the King's birthday; he knew that peers could not be seized, that some places such as the Savoy and Whitefriars were sanctuaries, and he hoped that Lord Keith's house might therefore share these qualities: his longing eyes were fixed upon the open door, the lights within.
'Come on, governor,' cried the driver.
'Mind the step, your honour,' said a boy, holding the door.
'Come on, slow-arse,' shouted the coachman behind. 'You ain't going to plant a tree, are you?'
There was no help for it. Jack stepped out on to the pavement and stood by Stephen in the scarcely-moving throng, hitching his cloak even higher round his face.
'It's the Emperor of Morocco,' said a light brightly-painted whore.
'It's the Polish giant from Astley's.'
'Show us your face, sweetheart.'
'Hold your head up, cock.'
Some thought he was a foreigner, French dog of a Turk, others Old Moore, or Mother Shipton in disguise. He shuffled wretchedly towards the lighted doors, and when a hand clapped down on his shoulder he turned with a ferocity that pleased the crowd more than anything they had seen hitherto, except for Miss Rankin treading on her petticoat and coming down full length. 'Aubrey! Jack Aubrey!' cried Dundas, his old shipmate Heneage Dundas. 'I recognized your back at once—should have recognized you anywhere. How do you do? You have a touch of fever, I dare say? Dr Maturin, how do you do? Are you going in here? So am I, ha, ha, ha. How do you get along?' Dundas had recently been made post into the Franchise, 36; he loved the world in general, and his cheerful, affectionate flow of talk carried them across the pavement, up the steps and into the hall.
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