Meanwhile Gusset was “set upon his pins,” again, as the sergeant expressed it—in other words, he was helped up, groaning and breathing hard, to look from one to the other for commiseration, but finding none.
“Well, this is all waste of time, my lads,” said the sergeant, pulling himself together. “I say, gardener, we must have another long ladder, I suppose.”
“You’ll get no more of my ladders to break,” said the gardener, wagging his head, “in the King’s name or out of the King’s name.”
“What!” cried the sergeant, with mock fierceness.
“Well, how can you,” said the gardener, “when there aren’t none? There’s two little ones as you can tie together if you like, and Mrs Gusset will lend you a bit of clothes-line. But you wouldn’t catch me venturing my carkidge up them if she did. But you can do as you like, unless old Waxy Fat would like another try.”
“The lunch is quite ready, Mr Sergeant,” came from the kitchen door at that moment.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the sergeant, with a salute and a smile. Then he turned and looked at the broken ladder, next at Waller, and then at the mournful face of the constable, who looked back at him in despair.
“Well, master,” he said, “my lads aren’t much of angels, and they can’t fly up on to the roof, but they are looking hungry, as fellows as haven’t had a bite for the last six hours; so, with your leave, Mr Froy, sir, I will give orders for a flank attack upon that there bread and cheese.—Fall in, my lads! Left face! Forward! March!” and, placing himself by the leading file, he led the way straight up to the kitchen door, halted his men, gave the order to pile arms, and marched them into the kitchen, going himself directly after to collect his sentries and bring them up to the attack.