into the firelight and said crisply, "In the King's name!"

It was idle to pretend any longer. I raised my head and blinked drunkenly
at him. Then I filled the horn, sang thickly and with beery gusto, "Here's
a health unto His Majesty," and said, "Fill up and drink, whoever you are,
and shut the door. It's damned cold."

He had little, red, ferrety eyes, and they looked fiercely at me
--fiercely but not suspiciously, I thought. He waved my hospitality
aside, and said, "You are Oliver Wheatman?"

"Oliver Wheatman of the Hanyards, Esquire, at His Majesty's service to
command," I replied with great gravity, and filled another horn of ale. I
might pretend to be drunk, but I could not, unfortunately, pretend to
drink, and it was strongish ale. He made a motion to stop me--welcome
proof that he believed me tipsy in fact--and said, "Master Wheatman, the
less drunken you are, the better you will answer my questions."

"Sir," said I, draining off the horn, "I can drink and talk with any man
living, and, drunk or sober, I only answer the questions of my friends. So
get a horn off the dresser--I'm a bit tired--fill up, and tell me what you
want. D'you happen to be of my Lord Brocton's regiment?"

"I am."

"Then you'll be as drunk as me before you've finished with the Hanyards.
Our ale goes to the head most damnably quick, let me tell you. You tell my
dear old butty, the worshipful Master Jack Dobson, that I've caught a jack
half as thick and more than half as long as himself. Here it be. Fetch a
horn, I tell you, and drink to me and the two jacks--Jack Dobson and this