Jeremy rode out to gather in Jasper's friends. He called up John Steyning, of Catsfield, and young Parsloe, of the "Black Horse," and told each of them to bring two or three sturdy men. The meeting-place was to be the "Queen's Head" Inn at Sedlescombe. They were to gather there unostentatiously, as though it were a matter of chance. Jeremy himself rode on to Hastings. He had an old friend quartered there as surgeon to the troops, Surgeon Stott, a one-eyed, bronze-headed vulture of a man, fierce of beak and skinny of neck, and with language enough to satisfy Satan. But Stott was a shrewd and steady surgeon with a quick hand and a cool head. He could keep his mouth shut, and bring down a partridge with a pistol-bullet.
Stott was an oddity, and Jeremy found him in a little back room of one of the Hastings inns, brewing a bowl of punch. He was tasting the stuff, with the ladle under his hooked nose, when Jeremy entered.
"What, Jeremy—you devil!"
"Punch at this time of day! Empty it out of the window, sir. I am taking you out on an adventure."
"A fight, eh? I'm game. Instruments or pistols, or both? By George, sir, I feel in a mood to cut off ten legs in as many minutes."
Jeremy sat down and told him the whole tale.
"So it is not a matter of leg-cutting, Stott."
"No, a quick shot with a pistol, and no pomposity, eh! Shoot the rogue first, and explain afterward."
"We've got to be careful, Stott. He is as touchy on the trigger as you are. Have you got a horse of your own?"
"Yes."