Roy was on his mettle; his eyes glistening at the sight of the six awkward-looking fellows, knowing as he did what a change a few days in the hands of Ben and the troopers would effect; but he was growing strong enough now to begin adopting the policy of making it a favour to admit men to his chosen band. So he ruffled up like a young game-cock, to stand there glittering in the bright sunshine, with one gauntleted hand resting upon his hip, the other pressing down the hilt of his long sword.
“Want to see me, my lads?” he said.
There was a general whispering among the men as to who should speak, and at last one of them was shouldered forward with, “Go on, Sam; you say it.”
Sam, the most sheepish of all, being thus thrust into prominence, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took off his hat, made an awkward bow, and thus delivered himself, with a smile:
“Morning, sir. You know me, Master Roy?”
“Eh? Oh, yes; Sam Donny, from the mill. What is it, my lad?”
“Only, sir, as me and my mates want to come and take sarvice here to fight for the king.”
“Eh? You? Well, I don’t know, my lad; we only want good men and true here, who will learn their duty, and do it.”
“Oh, that’s just what we are, sir,” said the man, smoothing down his hair; “not one on us as’d go to sleep o’ nights when the wind’s blowing.”
“Ah, but I don’t want fellows to grind corn. I want men who will be ready to fight,—yes, and like men.”