Kit felt at home. These men were of the country stock he knew by heart. "Friends," he said, "I'm a stranger here in Lancashire. Who is Colonel Shuttleworth?"
"Oh, just a backslider!" The yeoman's face was cheery by long habit, even when he condemned a man. "He's sent fifteen hundred men to help Rigby garrison the town of Bolton. The likes of him to help the likes of Rigby—it makes us fancy the times are upside down."
Kit Metcalf, when his horse was shod, rode forward swiftly. A league this side of Bolton, where the track climbed steep between banks of ling and bilberry, he saw a man striding a white horse. Man and horse were so big that they blotted out a good part of the sky-line; so he knew that there was a kinsman waiting for him.
"Yoi-hoi!" yelled Kit. "A Mecca for the King."
The horseman shielded his eyes against the sun as he watched the up-coming rider. Then a laugh that Kit remembered floated down-wind to him.
"Why, Michael, what are you doing here?" he asked, as he drew near.
"To be frank, I was yawning just before you came. I've been waiting since daybreak for some messenger from Lathom. And at the end of it you come, white brother of the Metcalf flock—you, who have the luck at every turn."
"I had luck this time—fifteen sorties since I saw you last. Michael, you should have been there with us. We brought their mortar in——"
"Good," drawled Michael. "You had the luck. For my part, I've been sitting on a horse as thirsty as myself for more hours than I remember. Let's get down to camp and a brew of ale there."
"And afterwards we sortied—sortied till we drove them into hiding, like rabbits. The Lady of Lathom welcomed us home each night, her eyes on fire."