"I am not; but if you'll tell me your name I think then I'll know one of them."
There was a twinkle in his eye as he said:
"They call me Tom Peel."
"Then Tom," said I, "are there eight like you in the town of Rye?"
"Not quite as big perhaps," said Tom, "but there's plenty of good men here, as the French have found out before now,—yes, and the constables as well. What do you want nine men for?"
"Because I have nine swords and nine pistols that will fit that number of courageous subjects."
"Then it's not for the occupation of agriculture you require them?" said Peel with the hint of a laugh. "There's a chance of a cut in the ribs, I suppose, for swords generally meet other swords."
"You're right in that; but I don't think the chance is very strong."
"And perhaps a term in prison when the scrimmage is ended?"
"No fear of that at all at all; for if any one was to go to prison it would be me, who will be your leader, and not you, who will be my dupes, do you see?"