“Ay, and suppose it was, Master Cobbe. What then?” growled Wat.
“You dog! How dare you insult my guests?” he cried. “I’ll have no more of thy ill-conditioned drunken ways. Here, Croftly, Jenking, a dozen of you, serve this old brawler, here, the same. I will have him punished, Sir Mark, or my name is not Cobbe.”
He turned to his guest, and then his sun-browned, rugged face became purple with fury, for, of all the group of his busy workmen about, not one stirred to do his bidding.
“Do you hear?” he roared, furiously. “In with that fellow there.”
Wat Kilby laughed, and seated himself on a block of stone, took out his pipe and flint and steel with exasperating calmness, and prepared to strike a light.
Still no one moved, and Sir Mark, who was irritated beyond endurance, called to his followers to throw Wat in themselves.
But the two men shivered and glanced towards their horses, so thoroughly had they been cowed by their wetting; and, seeing this, Sir Mark made at the old fellow himself.
“Up with you, boor,” he cried, presenting his sword as if to prick the old fellow towards the water.
Wat ceased nicking the steel against the flint, blew at the tinder, lit his pipe, and puffed a cloud in the face of Sir Mark, as, rising suddenly, he towered over him, and looked down with a cool laugh.
“Put up thy sword, my fine fellow,” he cried. “Thou art not going to pook me, and there isn’t a man here who would raise a finger to help thee. I gave my lads here orders to duck your men for insulting our captain, and they did it well. Come away, boys, we are not wanted here.”