"I tell you, my men," Governor Brent continued, returning their salute with a wave of his hand, "this standing about the door of ale-houses is a poor way of life for pioneers. It breeds idleness, and idleness breeds discontent. Get you all in and drink the King's health at my charge, and then off with you to work; and the more you use your mouths to eat and drink withal, and the less for idle chatter, the better it shall fare with you and your families."
The men, nothing loath to obey the behest, filed into the inn, cheering alternately for the King, Lord Baltimore, Leonard Calvert, the Governor now in England, and his deputy, Giles Brent, the last cheer being the mightiest of all and only drowned by the gurgling of the great draughts of October ale pouring down their throats.
"Hold, Ellyson," said Brent, as the sheriff passed in last of all. "I want a word with you."
"Yes, your Excellency; you do me honor," said Ellyson, doffing his cap of maintenance.
"Does Richard Ingle take his meals on board ship or ashore?"
"I'm not rightly sure, your Excellency; but I do think he takes his supper here at the inn, and the other meals on his ship."
"Does he come alone?"
"Sometimes alone, but oftener with his brother."
"At what hour does he sup?"