“Brandy,” said Archy.
“Oh, then, down in the cellar’s the place,” said Shackle, laughing, and taking three mugs from where his wife had placed them. “If it had been for silks and laces, I should have said go upstairs.”
He led the way to a door at the top of some stone steps.
“One moment,” said Archy, and, giving orders to the men to separate, surround the premises, and search the outbuildings, then stationing two more at the doors, and taking one, Gurr, to search upstairs, he followed the farmer into a fairly spacious stone cellar, where there was a cider barrel in company with two of ale, and little kegs of elder wine and mead.
“Sarch away, squire,” said Shackle bluffly, as he placed the mugs on the floor and turned the wooden spigots.
“That’s elder wine in the little barrel. Say, you haven’t seen anything of a boy of mine in your travels? My lad and one of the men have gone after a stray cow. I’m fear’d she’s gone over the cliff.”
“They’re all on board the cutter.”
“What? Well, that is good news. Full up here. Done sarching, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Archy, who began to feel more and more ashamed of being suspicious of so frank and bluffly hospitable a man.
“Come along then. Your lads will be as pleased as can be with a mug of my home-brewed.”