“What are you going to do, Ken?” asked Max.
“Hoist our colours. I’ll let them see whether we’re going to surrender.”
“Want any more hot watter, Maister Ken?” cried the cook.
“Yes, to be sure—coppersful. Bring it along.”
For the first time in Kenneth’s recollection he saw the butler run, and in a few minutes he was back, with a red table-cover and a rusty-headed old lance.
“That’s right! I’ll show ’em!” cried Kenneth, as he tied two corners to the lance shaft; and, amidst fresh cheering, this was stuck in a corner and fixed in position with stones, so that the colours flew out triumphantly.
“Now then, come on!” shouted Kenneth, and a roar of defiance was uttered by the garrison, as the bailiff led back his men, making them pick up the battering-ram, and organising them for a fresh attack.
“A set o’ cooards!” he exclaimed; “I’m ashamed o’ ye.”
“Weel, ye rin too,” grumbled one of the men.
“Haud yer clack,” cried the bailiff. “Noo then—go!”