"It is a strange omen," said Walcot ruminatively,
"A what?" derisively chorused half a dozen voices.
"'Tis not the first time oak has served Charles a good turn in his evil hour."
"What's the man maundering about?" said West.
"I know not," growled Rumsey. "Unless it be of that accursed Boscobel oak-tree. Well, well, I'll warrant root and branch shall be lopped this time close enough, eh, Master Rumbold? and we'll bring its fine acorns into the mud. Come, to business. Are we all here?"
"I do not see my friend of the other night," said Howard looking round. "The young gentleman who so deftly rendered my hand that surgeon's service."
"Lawrence Lee, you mean, my lord?"
"Ay, that was his name. A likely young fellow he seemed. A neighbour of yours, I think you said, Master Hannibal?"
"He should have been here," said the maltster; "but 'tis no matter, we can do without him. He is—"
Noisy rats.