The founder was more successful, for on coming up and asking a similar question, gazing angrily the while at Wat Kilby, that individual uttered a low laugh. "This was thy doing!" the founder cried fiercely, as he scowled at the old sailor. "Ay, and suppose it was, Master Cobbe. What then?" growled Wat. "You dog! How dare you insult my guests?" he cried. "I'll have no more of thy ill-conditioned drunken ways. Here, Croftly, Jenking, a dozen of you, serve this old brawler, here, the same. I will have him punished, Sir Mark, or my name is not Cobbe." He turned to his guest, and then his sun-browned, rugged face became purple with fury, for, of all the group of his busy workmen about, not one stirred to do his bidding. "Do you hear?" he roared, furiously. "In with that fellow there." Wat Kilby laughed, and seated himself on a block of stone, took out his pipe and flint and steel with exasperating calmness, and prepared to strike a light. Still no one moved, and Sir Mark, who was irritated beyond endurance, called to his followers to throw Wat in themselves. But the two men shivered and glanced towards their horses, so thoroughly had they been cowed by their wetting; and, seeing this, Sir Mark made at the old fellow himself. "Up with you, boor," he cried, presenting his sword as if to prick the old fellow towards the water. Wat ceased nicking the steel against the flint, blew at the tinder, lit his pipe, and puffed a cloud in the face of Sir Mark, as, rising suddenly, he towered over him, and looked down with a cool laugh. "Put up thy sword, my fine fellow," he cried. "Thou art not going to pook me, and there isn't a man here who would raise a finger to help thee. I gave my lads here orders to duck your men for insulting our captain, and they did it well. Come away, boys, we are not wanted here." The great fellow's coolness seemed somehow to stagger Sir Mark, while the founder made no further attempt to interfere, as Wat thrust his tobacco in one pocket, his flint and steel in the other; and, puffing away at his pipe, went slowly off, staring hard at the house for a glance at Janet. Then passing the great howitzer he gave it an affectionate slap upon the breech, and marched towards the forest. "In with you," cried Sir Mark to his followers; "in and get your garments dry. Master Cobbe, these men will have to be brought to book." He glanced round haughtily at the group of workpeople, who did not, however, seem much impressed either by him or his ways, for they merely nodded and whispered together, ending by broadly grinning at the figure cut by the two half-drowned men, who followed the founder into one of the stone furnace-sheds, where they were furnished with blankets to use as wrappers while their clothes were rapidly dried. Sir Thomas shortly after left on foot, alleging that he was too much hurt by the saddle to attempt to mount again; and his horse was ridden back for him by one of the founder's boys.