“Samuel it is, old codger. Liquor going?”
“A hogshead full. Come inside; there’s room for a porker.”
John Gore laughed. It was dark in the yard, and the men could not recognize him.
“Whose coach?” he asked.
“This ’ere? Old Porteus Panter’s. And pant he would, the liquoring old scoundrel, if he knew what honest fellows were warming his cushions. Come along in, lad. Skin o’ my eyes, where’s that damned boy with the beer?”
“I’ll go and clap the horses in, and come and clink mugs.”
He walked toward the stables, leading his horse by the bridle. Catching the man Tom while he was still staring at the dim but vociferous vehicles in the yard, he slapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Keep mum, Tom, my lad. There is some fun here. Put the horses in, and swing your heels on the manger for half an hour.”
John Gore managed to slip into the house by the garden entry, and making his way along a passage, reached the door of the dining-room without meeting any of my lord’s servants. Supper was over, and the gentlemen were at their wine, and talking so hard that a company of carol-singers might have struck up in the court-yard without being noticed. John Gore turned the handle and walked in—top-boots, riding-cloak, and all, dusty, and a little hot. His father sat with his back to him at the head of the long table, with some dozen guests talking and drinking on either side hereof.
Seated on Stephen Gore’s right hand was one of the gentlemen who had been at Bushy those few days in the summer. He was the first to recognize the intruder, and welcomed him with a laugh and an upraised glass of wine.