"Nothing would please us better," assented Michael. "Will our friend here join us, host?"
"Oh, we none of us heed Drunken Barnaby. Leave him to his rhymes, sir."
Yet Michael turned at the door. "I have it, Barnaby," he chuckled. "Here I found a Puritane one: bid him turn and grow a sane one'—that's the way of it, man."
"It rhymes," said Barnaby sadly, "but the true poetic fire is lacking. Leave me to it, gentlemen."
As they crossed the passage Kit drew his brother aside. "Remember what the Squire said, Michael. We need quiet tongues and a cool head if we're to find Rupert."
"Youngster, I remember. That was why I played the fool to Barnaby's good lead. All men trust a fool."
When they came to the parlour, they found a well-filled board, and round it six men, big in the beam, with big, cropped heads and an air of great aloofness from this world's concerns; but they were doing very well with knife and fork. The two Metcalfs answered all questions guardedly; and all went well until Kit saw a great pie brought in, a long, flat-shaped affair with pastry under and over, and inside, when its crust was tapped, a wealth of mincemeat of the kind housewives make at Christmas.
"Michael, this is all like Yoredale," said Kit unguardedly. "Here's a Christmas pie."
To his astonishment, the Puritans half rose in their seats and glanced at him as if he had the plague. "There are Royalists among us," said one.
"What is all this nonsense, friends?" asked Michael, with imperturbable good temper.