“That this cannon and this powder of your manufacture you have for years past regularly and by your own design sold, furnished, and supplied to his sacred Majesty’s enemies in various parts of the world. These treasonable practices he now wots of, at least by report, and I am his messenger to you, sir, to know if they are true. What have you to say?”
“What have I to say, boy!” cried the cannon founder, flushing angrily as he leaned forward, set his elbows on the table, and gazed full at his visitor. “What have I to say? Nothing at all. I do make cannons, and I do make powder, the best I can, and I sell them to those who’ll buy. I offered to supply his Majesty with guns of which he might be proud, and some Jack-in-office refused my offer, so I sell them where I will.”
“To his Majesty’s enemies?”
“Hang his enemies; I know not who gets them when they are shipped away and I am paid.”
“You avow then, boldly, that you do supply these munitions of warfare to other than the King’s liege subjects?”
“Avow, man, yes. I sell to who will give me a good price; and look here, my gaily-feathered young Tom chick, this is not London city, and my house is not the Court. Don’t speak to me as if I were one of your servants and hangers-on.”
“You are insolent, sir,” cried Sir Mark angrily. “If I report all this and your treasonable words, the result may be a body of his Majesty’s soldiers despatched to raze your works to the ground, and march you back to London to take your trial.”
“Let them come,” cried the founder, now giving the fury he had pent up its full vent; “let them come, and I’ll give them such a reception as will make your Powder Plot seem a trifle. Why, do you know, my velvet and silken popinjay, that we have good men and true down here, enough to tickle the ears of as many of your fellows as you like to send.”
“Silence, sir!” cried Sir Mark; “do you dare to set at naught the King’s.”
“Damn the King!” cried the founder furiously, “damn the King for a porridge-eating, witch-hunting old fool!”