"Well?" asked the prisoner.
Drinkwater, dour, persistent, believing what his arid experience had taught him—that each man had his price—found a rough sort of diplomacy. "You can go safe if you tell us where the message is."
"I never cared too much for safety," said Kit, with great cheeriness. "Offer another bribe, good crophead."
Ebenezer, fond of food and good liquor, fell into the usual snare, and measured all men's appetites by his own. "You look starved and empty. A good supper, say, and a creaming mug of ale to top it?"
"I'll take that draught of beer. Supper I'm in no need of for an hour or two."
Drinkwater laughed, without merriment, as he bade one of his men go to the tavern and bring a measure of home-brewed. It was brought to Christopher, and the smell of it was good as he blew the froth away.
Between the cup and the drinking he halted. "Let us understand the bargain. I drink this ale—I'm thirsty, I admit—and in return I tell you where I hide the message."
"That is the bargain," assented Drinkwater. "I always knew every man was to be bought, but your price is the cheapest I've heard tell of."
Kit lingered over the draught. "It is good ale," he said. "Send for another measure."
"Well, it's not in the bond, but you can have it. Now, youngster," went on Drinkwater, after the second measure had been despatched, "where's that message of yours?"