"A dusty chap he was; got a beard and a patch over one eye, and he come
of a afternoon when there was no one about the place but her.
"'Hullo, missis,' says he; 'got a room for a quiet chap?'
"'I don't take in no men-folks,' says she; 'can't be bothered with 'em.'
"'You'll be bothered with _me_, if I'm not mistaken,' says he.
"'Bothered if I will,' says she.
"'Bothered if you won't,' says he, and with that he ups with his hand
and off comes the black patch, and he pulls off the beard and gives her
a kiss and a smack on the shoulder. She always said she nearly died when
she see it was her new-made bridegroom under the beard.
"So she took her own man in as a lodger, and he went to work up at
Upton's Farm with his beard on, and of nights he kept up the smuggling
business. And for a year or more no one knowd as it was him. But they
got him at last."
"What became of him?" We all asked it.
"He's dead," said the old man. "But, Lord love you, so's everybody as
lived in them far-off old ancient days--all dead--Preventives too--and
smugglers and gentry: all gone under the daisies."
We felt quite sad. Oswald hastily asked if there wasn't any smuggling
now.
"Not hereabouts," the old man answered, rather quickly for him. "Don't
you go for to think it. But I did know a young chap--quite young he is
with blue eyes--up Sunderland way it was. He'd got a goodish bit o'
baccy and stuff done up in a ole shirt. And as he was a-goin' up off of
the beach a coastguard jumps out at him, and he says to himself, 'All u.
p. this time,' says he. But out loud he says, 'Hullo, Jack, that you? I
thought you was a tramp,' says he.
"'What you got in that bundle?' says the coastguard.
"'My washing,' says he, 'and a couple pairs of old boots.'
"Then the coastguard he says, 'Shall I give you a lift with it?'
thinking in himself the other chap wouldn't part if it was anything it
oughtn't to be. But that young chap was too sharp. He says to himself,
'If I don't he'll nail me, and if I do--well, there's just a chance.'
"So he hands over the bundle, and the coastguard he thinks it must be
all right, and he carries it all the way up to his mother's for him,
feeling sorry for the mean suspicions he'd had about the poor old chap.
But that didn't happen near here. No, no."
I think Dora was going to say, "_Old_ chap--but I thought he was young
with blue eyes?" but just at that minute a coastguard came along and
ordered us quite harshly not to lean on the boat. He was quite
disagreeable about it--how different from our own coastguards! He was
from a different station to theirs. The old man got off very slowly.
And all the time he was arranging his long legs so as to stand on them,
the coastguard went on being disagreeable as hard as he could, in a loud
voice.
[Illustration: A COASTGUARD ORDERED US QUITE HARSHLY NOT TO LEAN ON THE
BOAT.]
When our old man had told the coastguard that no one ever lost anything
by keeping a civil tongue in his head, we all went away feeling very
angry.
Alice took the old man's hand as we went back to the village, and asked
him why the coastguard was so horrid.
"They gets notions into their heads," replied the old man; "the most
innocentest people they comes to think things about. It's along of there
being no smuggling in these ere parts now. The coastguards ain't got
nothing to do except think things about honest people."
We parted from the old man very warmly, all shaking hands. He lives at a
cottage not quite in the village, and keeps pigs. We did not say goodbye
till we had seen all the pigs.
I daresay we should not have gone on disliking that disagreeable
coastguard so much if he had not come along one day when we were talking
to our own coastguards, and asked why they allowed a pack of young
shavers in the boat-house. We went away in silent dignity, but we did
not forget, and when we were in bed that night Oswald said--
"Don't you think it would be a good thing if the coastguards had
something to do?"
Dicky yawned and said he didn't know.
"I should like to be a smuggler," said Oswald. "Oh, yes, go to sleep if
you like; but I've got an idea, and if you'd rather be out of it I'll
have Alice instead."
"Fire away!" said Dicky, now full of attention, and leaning on his
elbow.
"Well, then," said Oswald, "I think we _might_ be smugglers."
"We've played all those things so jolly often," said Dicky.
"But I don't mean play," said Oswald. "I mean the real thing. Of course
we should have to begin in quite a small way. But we should get on in
time. And we might make quite a lot for poor Miss Sandal."
"Things that you smuggle are expensive," said Dicky.
"Well, we've got the chink the Indian uncle sent us on Saturday. I'm
certain we could do it. We'd get some one to take us out at night in one
of the fishing-boats--just tear across to France and buy a keg or a bale
or something, and rush back."
"Yes, and get nabbed and put in prison. Not me," said Dicky. "Besides,
who'd take us?"
"That old Viking man would," said Oswald; "but of course, if you funk
it!"
"I don't funk anything," said Dicky, "bar making an ape of myself. Keep
your hair on, Oswald. Look here. Suppose we get a keg with nothing in
it--or just water. We should have all the fun, and if we _were_ collared
we should have the laugh of that coastguard brute."
Oswald agreed, but he made it a condition that we should call it the keg
of brandy, whatever was in it, and Dicky consented.
Smuggling is a manly sport, and girls are not fitted for it by nature.
At least Dora is not; and if we had told Alice she would have insisted
on dressing as a boy and going too, and we knew Father would not like
this. And we thought Noel and H.O. were too young to be smugglers with
any hope of success. So Dicky and I kept the idea to ourselves.
We went to see the Viking man the next day. It took us some time to make
him understand what we wanted, but when he did understand he slapped his
leg many times, and very hard, and declared that we were chips of the
old block.
"But I can't go for to let you," he said; "if you was nailed it's the
stone jug, bless your hearts."
So then we explained about the keg really having only water in, and he
slapped his leg again harder than ever, so that it would really have
been painful to any but the hardened leg of an old sea-dog. But the
water made his refusals weaker, and at last he said--
"Well, see here, Benenden, him as owns the _Mary Sarah_, he's often took
out a youngster or two for the night's fishing, when their pa's and ma's
hadn't no objection. You write your pa, and ask if you mayn't go for
the night's fishing, or you get Mr. Charteris to write. He knows it's
all right, and often done by visitors' kids, if boys. And if your pa
says yes, I'll make it all right with Benenden. But mind, it's just a
night's fishing. No need to name no kegs. That's just betwixt
ourselves."
So we did exactly as he said. Mr. Charteris is the clergyman. He was
quite nice about it, and wrote for us, and Father said "Yes, but be very
careful, and don't take the girls or the little ones."
We showed the girls the letter, and that removed the trifling
ill-feeling that had grown up through Dick and me having so much secret
talk about kegs and not telling the others what was up.
Of course we never breathed a word about kegs in public, and only to
each other in bated breaths.
What Father said about not taking the girls or the little ones of course
settled any wild ideas Alice might have had of going as a cabin-girl.
The old Viking man, now completely interested in our scheme, laid all
the plans in the deepest-laid way you can think. He chose a very dark
night--fortunately there was one just coming on. He chose the right time
of the tide for starting, and just in the greyness of the evening when
the sun is gone down, and the sea somehow looks wetter than at any other
time, we put on our thick undershirts, and then our thickest suits and
football jerseys over everything, because we had been told it would be
very cold. Then we said goodbye to our sisters and the little ones, and
it was exactly like a picture of the "Tar's Farewell," because we had
bundles, with things to eat tied up in blue checked handkerchiefs, and
we said goodbye to them at the gate, and they would kiss us.
Dora said, "Goodbye, I _know_ you'll be drowned. I hope you'll enjoy
yourselves, I'm sure!"
Alice said, "I do think it's perfectly beastly. You might just as well
have asked for me to go with you; or you might let us come and see you
start."
"Men must work, and women must weep," replied Oswald with grim sadness,
"and the Viking said he wouldn't have us at all unless we could get on
board in a concealed manner, like stowaways. He said a lot of others
would want to go too if they saw us."
We made our way to the beach, and we tried to conceal ourselves as much
as possible, but several people did see us.
When we got to the boat we found she was manned by our Viking and
Benenden, and a boy with red hair, and they were running her down to the
beach on rollers. Of course Dicky and I lent a hand, shoving at the
stern of the boat when the men said, "Yo, ho! Heave ho, my merry boys
all!" It wasn't exactly that that they said, but it meant the same
thing, and we heaved like anything.
It was a proud moment when her nose touched the water, and prouder still
when only a small part of her stern remained on the beach and Mr.
Benenden remarked--
"All aboard!"
The red boy gave a "leg up" to Dicky and me and clambered up himself.
Then the two men gave the last shoves to the boat, already cradled
almost entirely on the bosom of the deep, and as the very end of the
keel grated off the pebbles into the water, they leaped for the gunwale
and hung on it with their high sea-boots waving in the evening air.
By the time they had brought their legs on board and coiled a rope or
two, we chanced to look back, and already the beach seemed quite a long
way off.
We were really afloat. Our smuggling expedition was no longer a dream,
but a real realness. Oswald felt almost too excited at first to be able
to enjoy himself. I hope you will understand this and not think the
author is trying to express, by roundabout means, that the sea did not
agree with Oswald. This is not the case. He was perfectly well the whole
time. It was Dicky who was not. But he said it was the smell of the
cabin, and not the sea, and I am sure he thought what he said was true.
In fact, that cabin was a bit stiff altogether, and was almost the means
of upsetting even Oswald.
It was about six feet square, with bunks and an oil stove, and heaps of
old coats and tarpaulins and sou'-westers and things, and it smelt of
tar, and fish, and paraffin-smoke, and machinery oil, and of rooms where
no one ever opens the window.
Oswald just put his nose in, and that was all. He had to go down later,
when some fish was cooked and eaten, but by that time he had got what
they call your sea-legs; but Oswald felt more as if he had got a
sea-waistcoat, rather as if he had got rid of a land-waistcoat that was
too heavy and too tight.
I will not weary the reader by telling about how the nets are paid out
and dragged in, or about the tumbling, shining heaps of fish that come
up all alive over the side of the boat, and it tips up with their weight
till you think it is going over. It was a very good catch that night,
and Oswald is glad he saw it, for it was very glorious. Dicky was asleep
in the cabin at the time and missed it. It was deemed best not to rouse
him to fresh sufferings.
It was getting latish, and Oswald, though thrilled in every marrow, was
getting rather sleepy, when old Benenden said, "There she is!"
Oswald could see nothing at first, but presently he saw a dark form on
the smooth sea. It turned out to be another boat.
She crept quietly up till she was alongside ours, and then a keg was
hastily hoisted from her to us.