“You are very hospitable,” said Archy shortly; “but I’ve got my duty to do, sir. It’s an unpleasant one, that we must search your place for contraband goods.”
“Sarch? Oh, I give you my word, squire, there’s nothing here.”
“We must see about that.”
“Well, this here arn’t werry pleasant, Mr Orficer, seeing as I’m a reg’lar loyal servant of the king. But theer, I don’t mind if my missus don’t object. You won’t mind, old gal, so long as they don’t rip open the beds and chuck the furniture all over the place?”
“I should like to see any of them doing it, that’s all,” cried Mrs Shackle, ruffling up like a great Dorking hen who saw a hawk.
“Nothing about the place shall be injured, madam,” said Archy politely; “but we must search.”
“Oh, very well then,” said Mrs Shackle; “but I must say it’s very rude.”
“Pray, forgive us,” said Archy, raising his hat; “we are His Majesty’s servants, and we do it in the king’s name.”
Mrs Shackle responded with her best curtsey, and a smile came back in her face as the farmer said,—
“It’s all right, missus; they’re obliged to do it. Where will you begin first—what are you sarching for?”