“Rap on the door, Mount,” I said.  Mount gave a round double rap, chewed his grass-stem, considered, then rapped again, humming to himself in an under-tone: 

     “Is the old fox in? 
     Is the old fox out? 
     Is the old fox gone to Glo-ry? 
     Oh, he’s just come in,
     But he’s just gone out,
     And I hope you like my sto-ry! 
     Tink-a-diddle-diddle-diddle,
     Tink-a-diddle-diddle-dum—­”

“Rap louder,” I said.

Mount obeyed, chewed reflectively, and scratched his ear.

     “Is the Tory in? 
     Is the Tory out? 
     Is the Tory gone to Glo-ry? 
     Oh, he’s just come in. 
     But he’s just gone out—­”

“Knock louder,” I repeated.

Murphy said he could drive the door in with his gun-butt; I shook my head.

“Somebody’s coming,” observed Mount—­

     “Tink-a-diddle-diddle—­”

The door opened and a lean, dark-faced man appeared, dressed in his smalls and shirt.  He favored us with a sour look, which deepened to a scowl when he recognized Mount, who saluted him cheerfully.

“Hello, Beacraft, old cock!  How’s the mad world usin’ you these palmy, balmy days?”

“Pretty well,” said Beacraft, sullenly.

“That’s right, that’s right,” cried Mount.  “My friends and I thought we’d just drop around.  Ain’t you glad, Beacraft, old buck?”

“Not very,” said Beacraft.

“Not very!” echoed Mount, in apparent dismay and sorrow.  “Ain’t you enj’yin’ good health, Beacraft?”

“I’m well, but I’m busy,” said the man, slowly.

“So are we, so are we,” cried Mount, with a brisk laugh.  “Come in, friends; you must know my old acquaintance Beacraft better; a King’s man, gentlemen, so we can all feel at home now!”

For a moment Beacraft looked as though he meant to shut the door in our faces, but Mount’s huge bulk was in the way, and we all followed his lead, entering a large, unplastered room, part kitchen, part bedroom.

“A King’s man,” repeated Mount, cordially, rubbing his hands at the smouldering fire and looking around in apparent satisfaction.  “A King’s man; what the nasty rebels call a ‘Tory,’ gentlemen.  My!  Ain’t this nice to be all together so friendly and cosey with my old friend Beacraft?  Who’s visitin’ ye, Beacraft?  Anybody sleepin’ up-stairs, old friend?”

Beacraft looked around at us, and his eyes rested on Sir George.

“Who be you?” he asked.

“This is my friend, Mr. Covert,” said Mount, fairly sweating cordiality from every pore—­“my dear old friend, Mr. Covert—­”

“Oh,” said Beacraft, “I thought he was Sir George Covert....  And yonder stands your dear old friend Timothy Murphy, I suppose?”

“Exactly,” smiled Mount, rubbing his palms in appreciation.

The man gave me an evil look.

“I don’t know you,” he said, “but I could guess your business.”  And to Mount:  “What do you want?”