The landlord, seeing that it was hopeless to throw more dust in the shrewd sailor’s eye, submitted with the best grace he could summon.
“Well, there’s my Lord Farnham for one,” he said.
“My Lord Farnham, is there?” said the sailor. “Well, mate, I calls that sing’lar, seein’ as how my Lord Farnham is the very young man I’m wantin’.”
“I will conduct you to him, then,” said the landlord.
He had lost the game; but he spoke as cheerfully and obligingly as he could, for he was keenly desirous to propitiate this ugly devil of a mariner. Besides, one sailor more or less did not matter much at this stage. The time was growing very short. The hoofs of the soldiers’ horses would soon be heard on the road. Diggory Fargus or ten Diggory Farguses would then be of no avail.
The landlord put his best leg foremost, and led the sailor up the rickety stairs to the chamber where the King sat in the society of the Earl of Farnham and his Countess. He knocked a little timidly upon the door.
“Enter,” said the frank voice of the King.
“If it please your Majesty and your lordship and your ladyship,” said the landlord, putting his nose on his belly again, deeming that etiquette demanded it of him, “there is here a sailor-man to see my lord.”
“Let us have a look at him,” said the King, scenting some little diversion.
“Which be my Lord Farnham, mate?” said the mariner, addressing the King bluffly. He was a plain man himself, and the landlord’s elaborate flummeries rather increased the directness of his manners.