Drinkwater, a hard man, empty of imagination, could make nothing of this youngster who seemed to have no thought for his life. He ordered one of his men to search the prisoner. Boots and pockets, shirt and the inner lining of his coat were ransacked. And Christopher felt no humiliation, because laughter was bubbling at his heart. "Well?" asked the prisoner. Drinkwater, dour, persistent, believing what his arid experience had taught him—that each man had his price—found a rough sort of diplomacy. "You can go safe if you tell us where the message is." "I never cared too much for safety," said Kit, with great cheeriness. "Offer another bribe, good crophead." Ebenezer, fond of food and good liquor, fell into the usual snare, and measured all men’s appetites by his own. "You look starved and empty. A good supper, say, and a creaming mug of ale to top it?" "I’ll take that draught of beer. Supper I’m in no need of for an hour or two." Drinkwater laughed, without merriment, as he bade one of his men go to the tavern and bring a measure of home-brewed. It was brought to Christopher, and the smell of it was good as he blew the froth away. Between the cup and the drinking he halted. "Let us understand the bargain. I drink this ale—I’m thirsty, I admit—and in return I tell you where I hide the message." "That is the bargain," assented Drinkwater. "I always knew every man was to be bought, but your price is the cheapest I’ve heard tell of." Kit lingered over the draught. "It is good ale," he said. "Send for another measure." "Well, it’s not in the bond, but you can have it. Now, youngster," went on Drinkwater, after the second measure had been despatched, "where’s that message of yours?" "In my head, sir," said Kit, with a careless nod. "Safe behind wooden walls, as my father put it when he bade me learn it all by rote." "No jesting," snapped Drinkwater, nettled by a guarded laugh from one of his own men. "The bargain was that you told us the message." "That I told you where it lay—no more, no less. I have told you, and paid for that good ale of yours." Drinkwater was no fool. He saw himself outwitted and wasted no regrets. After all, he had the better of the jest. "Tie him by the legs and arms," he said dourly, "and set him on the bench here till we’re ready to start. There are more ways than one of sobering a King’s man." Christopher did not like the feel of the rope about his limbs, nor did he relish the attentions of stray village-folk who came and jeered at him after his captors had gone in to supper. One can despise louts, but still feel the wasp-sting of their gibes.