"Your insinuations waste precious time, Sir Thomas Armstrong," said Rumbold, a frown of offended dignity puckering his brows as he turned and, crossing to the great oaken chest standing between the windows, raised its ponderous lid with both hands. "I would not be held a boaster; but those who have known Richard Rumbold longer than you have, will tell you that he is not the man to put his hand to the plough and draw it back. See," he went on, addressing the rest, who greeted his last words with a low murmur of applause, "here lie our tools," and he pointed into the open chest, "all in order; not forgetting the last cargo--muskets, bayonets, blunderbusses, and all." CHAPTER XV. THE PLOT THICKENS. "Blunderbusses!" shrieked a voice, which seemed to retreat, as it spoke, into the room's remotest corners; "the gracious powers above! Mind, for mercy's sake, be careful. Not loaded?" piteously went on the speaker. "Say they're not loaded, Master Rumbold." "Not yet, Master Sheriff," grimly smiled Rumbold. "But whatever can we be wanting of such fearful things?" insisted Goodenough. "That remains to be seen," laughed West, approaching the chest; and selecting a weapon from its gleaming contents, he placed it in Rumbold's hands. "Here, Master Hannibal, is the one I promised you for your special use. A jewel of a thing. Be careful of it." "Ay, yes, yes, do," entreated Goodenough; "hear what Master West says about it himself." "A sacred trust indeed," murmured Rumbold, thoughtfully handling the weapon, "and wielding a mighty power, for good or for ill. Come, Parson Ferguson," he went on, suddenly changing his mood, and turning to the tall, lean, sable-clad individual standing on his right "What say you? Will you consecrate it?" [Sidenote: Foul play.] "Of a surety it has my blessing," answered Ferguson, displaying his ugly yellow fangs of teeth in a broad grin. "Well, well, to business then," continued the maltster, carefully restoring the blunderbuss to its place and closing the chest. "Come, have we our parts by heart? You, and you," he went on, singling out three of the company, "and you." "Oy, oy! sartain sure enough we be o' ourn," said the foremost of the trio, slouching to the front, and elbowing his two comrades forward along with him, so that Ruth could plainly discern their features, and recognized them for the foreman of the malting-yard, one of his subordinates, and a man who worked in the corn-chambers. "Roight enough we be, an't us?" he went on, appealing to the sheepish, hangdog looking couple beside him. "'Tes for we to be trampin' out Stanstead way, an' hidin' us among the hedges and ditches till us catches soight o' the king's coach an six; an' then 'tes for we to be turnin' tail in a twinklin', and run as quick--as quick as--" "Twice as quick anyhow, friend, as the twenty-four legs of his majesty's Flanders mares," said Howard with a slight yawn.