"A thimbleful o' brandy might do the Admiral good," suggested the prisoner.
"Brandy?" cried Lord Rattley. "The air reeks of brandy! Where the—?"
"The basement's swimmin' with it, m' lord." The fellow touched his hat. "Two casks stove by the edge o' the table. I felt around the staves, an' counted six others, hale an' tight. Thinks I, 'tis what their Worships will have been keepin' for private use, between whiles. Or elst—"
"Or else?"
"Or else maybe we've tapped a private cellar."
Lord Rattley slapped his thigh.
"A cache, by Jove! Old Squire Nicholas—I remember, as a boy, hearing it whispered he was hand-in-glove with the Free Trade."
The prisoner touched his hat humbly.
"This bein' a magistrates' matter, m' lord, an' me not wishin' to interfere—"
"Quite so." Lord Rattley felt in his pockets. "You have done us a considerable service, my man, and—er—that bein' so—"