Sir Anthony nodded. “I hope so. How many men?”
“Two inside — naught to fear from them. There’s the coachman on the box, and a man with him.”
“Four.” Sir Anthony was unperturbed. “Possibly a pistol in the coach.”
“There’d be one in the holster, maybe. But Miss Prue’s inside and she has all her wits, sir.” John looked at the large gentleman in some awe. From the first he had felt respect for Sir Anthony, but he had not thought that he would undertake such a lawless venture as this quite so calmly. John was of the opinion that he might well be a good man in a fight, provided his size did not make him slow.
Sir Anthony came down out of the saddle, and produced his handkerchief. “Have you a muffler, my man? Cover your face to the eyes, and pull your hat well over your nose.”
John loosened the cloth at his neck. “There’s enough of it for two, sir. You’d best wear your greatcoat.” His glance rested expressively on Sir Anthony’s fine cloth coat.
Sir Anthony was unstrapping it from the saddle. He was handed a half of John’s generous neck-cloth, and proceeded to arrange it to cover the lower half of his face. The greatcoat was buttoned up, and the sword-hilt pulled through the placket. “I’ve pistols,” Sir Anthony said, “but I don’t want to make this a killing matter. Break yourself a thick stick: it should suffice.”
“Give me one of your barkers, sir. I’ll do as I did when we held up Mr Markham — fire over the coachmen’s heads. It frightens them so they think they’re killed.”
“My dear good man, do you want every cottager running from miles round to see what the noise means? Threaten a shot if you like, but on no account fire. It is understood?”
“Ay, sir,” said John, abashed. He went off to find a likely cudgel in the little spinney close at hand. Returning presently with a rough stick of ash, he ventured a piece of information. “Miss Prue has her sword-stick, sir. I saw to that. They don’t know it, but she does, and she knows how to use it, too.”