H.M.S. COCKEREL

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Ooh, sir, wawtch out f'r the…"

Wherever I go lately, Alan Lewrie mused, rather resignedly, I seem to be arse-deep in shit. Oh, well.

He waved off the towheaded young "daisy-kicker" at the Olde Ploughman Public House's hitching rail, who stood with silent offer to towel the offending matter from his glossy top boots.

"No use, lad," Lewrie said as he swung up into the saddle. "There's plenty more where I'm going."

"Oh, aye, sir, so they bel" The lad chirped, letting go the reins he held. Lewrie dug ha'pence from his wash-leather purse and flipped it to the daisy-kicker, who whooped with glee, as if the coin were the first he'd ever earned, as if Lewrie did not reward his chore each time he departed from the Olde Ploughman.

" 'Ta, yer honour, sir!" the boy called as Lewrie turned his horse west on the High Street." 'Night, Squire Lewrie!"

Lewrie touched the wide brim of his hat with a riding crop in reply as he clucked his tongue and kneed his mount to a brisk walk.

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