“Hallo, what is it?”
“Where’s King Nick? I want to see him.”
The tortoise-shell spectacles turned slowly in his direction.
“There is but one King, my son, omnipotent and all-merciful. One King—on High . . . but my name is certainly Nicholas.”
Ortho staggered. This the master-smuggler, the swashbuckling, devil-may-care hero of song and story! This rook-coated, bespectacled, white-headed old Canorum [Methodist] local preacher, King Nick! His senses reeled. It could never be, and yet he knew it was. It was the same voice, the voice that had blandly informed Anson he would blow him out of the water if he pulled another stroke. He felt for the door post and leaned against it goggling.
“Well?”
Ortho licked his lips.
“Well? I eddn no fiery dragon to eat ’e, boy. Say thy say.”
Ortho drew a long breath, hesitated and let it out with a rush.
“I can find the horses you’re wanting. I can find thirty horses a night any time after Twelfth Night, and land your goods in St. Just under four hours.”