“Charlie,” he cried, “are you there, Charlie?”
A young man emerged from one of the stables. He started at the sight of Hope.
“Are you mad, Jemmy Hope?” he said. “Are you mad, that you come here, and every stable full of dragoons’ horses? They have them billeted on us, curse them, and the villains are in the coachhouse polishing their bits and stirrup irons. Hark to them.”
“I hear them,” said Hope. “Get me two of your oat sacks, Charlie, good strong ones. I have goods here that want protecting from the sunlight.”
The man cast a swift glance round, ran to one of the stables, and fetched the sacks.
“Now, Neal, pack up, pack up.”
He pushed his own cases into one of the sacks. Neal followed his example.
“It won’t do,” said Hope, “the sacks don’t look natural. There are too many sharp corners bulging out. Charlie, lad, fetch us some straw—a good armful.”
While they were stuffing the sacks with the straw one of the dragoons swaggered across the yard. He stood watching Hope and Neal for a minute or two, and then said.
“What have you there that you’re so mighty careful of?”