to sea, dipping and
rising before a sharp southerly breeze.

"It is no Winchelsea boat," said the Mayor. "She is longer and broader
in the beam than ours."

"Horses! bring horses!" cried Chandos. "Come, Nigel, let us go further
into the matter."

A busy crowd of varlets, archers, and men-at-arms swarmed round the
gateway of the "Sign of the Broom Pod," singing, shouting, and jostling
in rough good-fellowship. The sight of the tall thin figure of Chandos
brought order amongst them, and a few minutes later the horses were
ready and saddled. A breakneck ride down a steep declivity, and then
a gallop of two miles over the sedgy plain carried them to the outer
harbor. A dozen vessels were lying there, ready to start for Bordeaux or
Rochelle, and the quay was thick with sailors, laborers and townsmen and
heaped with wine-barrels and wool-packs.

"Who is warden here?" asked Chandos, springing from his horse.

"Badding! Where is Cock Badding? Badding is warden!" shouted the crowd.

A moment later a short swarthy man, bull-necked and deep-chested, pushed
through the people. He was clad in rough russet wool with a scarlet
cloth tied round his black curly head. His sleeves were rolled up to
his shoulders, and his brown arms, all stained with grease and tar, were
like two thick gnarled branches from an oaken stump. His savage brown
face was fierce and frowning, and was split from chin to temple with the
long white wale of an ill-healed wound.

"How now, gentles, will you never wait your turn?" he rumbled in a deep
angry voice. "Can you not see that we are warping the Rose of Guienne
into midstream for the ebb-tide? Is this a time to break in upon us?
Your goods will go aboard in due season, I promise you; so ride back
into the town and find such pleasure as you may, while I and my mates do
our work without let or hindrance."

"It is the gentle Chandos!" cried some one in the crowd. "It is the good
Sir John."

The rough harbor-master changed his gruffness to smiles in an instant.
"Nay, Sir John, what would you? I pray you to hold me excused if I was
short of speech, but we port-wardens are sore plagued with foolish young
lordlings, who get betwixt us and our work and blame us because we do
not turn an ebb-tide into a flood, or a south wind into a north. I pray
you to tell me how I can serve you."

"That boat!" said Chandos, pointing to the already distant sail rising
and falling on the waves. "What is it?"

Cock Baddin