The handsome guest-chamber, or keeping-room as it was called, was not reserved merely for high days and holidays, for Richard Rumbold had no liking for such vain settings apart of time; but was used as the general sitting-room, and extended from end to end of the ground-storey. Its three windows fronted the great square smooth-shaven grass-plot, which by tradition and courtesy was called "the pleasaunce." In the middle stood one solemn big yew-tree, clipped, beehive-shape, and surmounted by a leafy monstrosity which Maudlin said was meant for a peacock. Never a flower, however, save the poor little buttercups and daisies, whose heads were chopped off in a twinkling, if they did venture to peer forth, ever starred that dreary pleasaunce, for the maltster said he had other uses for his money than to be wasting it on gaudy nonsenses like flowers. But returning now to the old wing, let us peep in for a moment on old Adam Lockit, the gatehouse keeper, in his sanctum deep hidden in the recesses of the vaulted archway piercing the tower, and giving on its outer side upon the drawbridge, which was still let down at dawn, and drawn up at sunset, by the massive old iron chains working through the wall. [Sidenote: Barnaby Diggles.] Not a snugger corner in the whole establishment than this of Master Lockit's. Within the last year or so, since he has not been so young as he used to be, and the dragging at those heavy chains has come to be a bit of a pull upon him, though he is a hale enough man for his threescore and ten, he has condescended to accept the assistance of a lad, employed originally as a Jack-of-all trades in the malting-yard, but promoted to the dignity of domestic factotum by reason of sundry excellent qualities. Foremost among these stand unimpeachable honesty and placid temper. A characteristic less distinguishing Barnaby Diggles, for so the lad was named, was animal courage. He was, in other words, an arrant coward; in the matter at all events of hobgoblins and things of the sort. He was, however, but just turned of sixteen; and time as yet had never tried his mettle with any real and substantial danger. Meanwhile, nothing so much charmed him as having his imagination tortured with ghost stories by the village gossips; unless, indeed, it was to sit and incline his ears to the hundred and one yarns of all countries and ages that Adam Lockit loved at least as much to spin. [Sidenote: The gatehouse room.]