The hauling went on till the first gun was level with the top of the battlements, when there was a clever bit of management with a big wooden bar or two handled by the troopers on the roof, and the first gun was easily dropped right upon its carriage.
“One,” said Roy, with a sigh of relief, for he was in constant dread of an accident.
“Ay, sir; and it will be two directly; and I wish it was three for the enemy’s sake.”
The second gun was hoisted, and mounted rapidly, thanks to the trained skill of the four regular soldiers; while the men from the mill who helped looked on with profound admiration, though they were pretty clever at moving stones.
Discipline was relaxed over this manual labour, with the consequence that Sam Donny’s tongue began to run rather freely, a certain intimacy having existed in the past between Roy and the miller’s man connected with the demand and supply of meal-worms for catching and feeding nightingales, which came about as far west as the castle and no farther.
“Beat us chaps to ’a done that, Master Roy,” he said.
“Captain Roy,” growled Ben.
“Ay. Forgetted,” said the man. “T’other seems so nat’ral. Beat us chaps, Captain Roy. We’m as strong as them, but they’ve got a way a handling they brass guns as seems to come nat’ral to ’em like. But if they’ll come to the mill, we’ll show ’em something along o’ flour-sacks, and the grinding-stones as’ll make ’em stare. Every man to his trade.”
“Well, you’re a soldier now, Sam Donny, and you must learn to handle guns as well as you handle sacks of flour.”
“We will, master—I mean cap’n. I should just like me and my mates to have the letting o’ them guns down again. May we, sir?”