“Rig up!” said Tom Crofty. “Hadn’t you better ask some of the Captain’s men? It’s more in their way.”
“No, no,” said the founder, hastily. “Make an arch of green boughs and flowers, and that sort of thing. You know better than I do; go up to the village and bid the men get the case of viols, and let there be a dance—the girls will be pleased. Tell the men they shall have their shilling and plenty of ale; and you can get some powder—a keg of coarse black—and the two little old guns, and fire ’em off. You can have what wood you like, too, for a bonfire at night. Do the thing well, my lad, and take a holiday all of you. I’ll find the ale.”
Tom Croftly took off his cap, and wiped his grimy brow with a blacker hand, as he seated himself on the bottom of an empty keg.
“We had a girt meeting ’bout it in the ’ood last night, master,” said Croftly; “and talked it all over.”
“Oh, you did?” said the founder, looking pleased. “Well, and what did you settle?”
“First find foremost, master, we sattled that we’d muffle the three bells up in the tower o’ the church.”
“Why, it’s two miles away, man, and the sound wouldn’t hardly be heard here.”
“And then we’d toll ’em all day long.”
“Toll them?” cried the founder.
“Ay, master, for it be like to us as if young mistress had been put in her grave.”