"Call the police, sir?"
"No! No, I'll—I'll hope for the best."
"With that mob," Busby said dismally, "the best is bound to be something worse than the worst, if you get my meaning."
"Nevertheless," Marc said, "we will have to face them with it." He led the way through the door and down the steps into the dim, musty sweetness of the cellar. As they descended, a second roar of laughter rose to greet them.
"Hey!" a voice called roughly out of the shadows. "Mine host approaches—with vassals?"
"Vassals of what?" another voice inquired woozily. "Or do you mean sea-going vassals?"
Marc peered into the dimness and held up a hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, not without a note of irony. "Ladies and gentlemen, Busby, here, has just told me a most shocking story."
There was a stirring in the dark. "Old Busby did that?" a voice said interestedly. "He hardly looks like he'd know any shockin' stories."
"Shame on Busby!" a feminine voice giggled out of the distance.
A form moved out of the shadows and proved to be Floss. "Let's hear this shockin' story," she said eagerly. "Ain't nothin' like a good shockin' story to get the party goin'."