"At the supper table, to-night, my worthy sire let slip the information
that my good uncle of Sundridge had been expected this afternoon. He had
not arrived when I left home fifteen minutes ago, but probably is stuck
in the mud a mile or two outside of London on the St. Albans road."

"Let him stick! What is it to us?" asked Crofts.

"Thus much it is to me," answered Wentworth. "He has with him a thousand
pounds in gold, while I, his gentleman nephew, have not a jacobus to my
name. Now the question becomes one of mere humanity. Shall we allow my
good uncle to stick in the mud, or shall we sally forth like good
Samaritans, relieve him of a part of his load, and make travelling easier
for the dear old man?"

"As men and Christians, we must hasten to his help," declared Crofts.

"But how about Hamilton and Churchill?" asked Berkeley, whose courage was
not of the quality to make a good highwayman. "Crofts has invited them
here for a feast with us. How shall we get rid of them? Hamilton has
become a mere milksop, and Churchill always was too cautious and politic
for this sort of a game. Not only will they refuse to go with us if we
tell them of our purpose, but they will try to keep us from going."

"Let us take them with us," suggested Crofts. "They won't go if we tell
them our purpose, but they will not peach if we take them with us upon
some other excuse. We'll walk ahead of them, and--but come with me to the
fire. I have a plan. All I ask you to do, Wentworth, is to shake out your
cloak, hang it before the fire, and speak of the rain and the bad night
outside. I'll do the rest! I'll fetch them! Come!"