Oswald could have kicked him, though he is his brother.
"Huh!" replied the Unloved One, "d'you think I haven't got a nose? Why,
it's oozing out of the bunghole now as strong as Samson."
"Open it and see," said Dicky, disregarding Oswald's whispered
instructions to him to shut up. "It _is_ water."
"What do you suppose I suppose you want to get water from the other side
for, you young duffer!" replied the brutal official. "There's plenty
water and to spare this side."
"It's--it's _French_ water," replied Dicky madly; "it's ours, my
brother's and mine. We asked these sailors to get it for us."
"Sailors, indeed!" said the hateful coastguard. "You come along with
me."
And our Viking said he was something or othered. But Benenden whispered
to him in a low voice that it was all right--time was up. No one heard
this but me and the Viking.
"I want to go home," said Dicky. "I don't want to come along with you."
"What did you want water for?" was asked. "To try it?"
"To stand you a drink next time you ordered us off your beastly boat,"
said Dicky. And Oswald rejoiced to hear the roar of laughter that
responded to this fortunate piece of cheek.
I suppose Dicky's face was so angel-like, innocent-looking, like
stowaways in books, that they _had_ to believe him. Oswald told him so
afterwards, and Dicky hit out.
Any way, the keg was broached, and sure enough it was water, and
sea-water at that, as the Unamiable One said when he had tasted it out
of a tin cup, for nothing else would convince him. "But I smell brandy
still," he said, wiping his mouth after the sea-water.
Our Viking slowly drew a good-sized flat labelled bottle out of the
front of his jersey.
"From the 'Old Ship,'" he said gently. "I may have spilt a drop or two
here or there over the keg, my hand not being very steady, as is well
known, owing to spells of marsh fever as comes over me every six weeks
to the day."
The coastguard that we never could bear said, "Marsh fever be something
or othered," and his comrades said the same. But they all blamed _him_,
and we were glad.
We went home sleepy, but rejoicing. The whole thing was as complete a
sell as ever I wish to see.
[Illustration: SURE ENOUGH IT WAS SEA-WATER, AS THE UNAMIABLE ONE SAID
WHEN HE HAD TASTED IT.]
Of course we told our own dear and respected Lymchurch coastguards, and
I think they may be trusted not to let it down on the Longbeach
coastguards for many a good day. If their memories get bad I think there
will always be plenty of people along that coast to remind them!
So _that's_ all right.
* * * * *
When we had told the girls all, and borne their reproaches for not
telling them before, we decided to give the Viking five bob for the game
way he had played up.
So we did. He would not take it at first, but when we said, "Do--you
might buy a pig with it, and call it Stokes after that coastguard," he
could no longer resist, and accepted our friendly gift.
We talked with him for a bit, and when we were going we thanked him for
being so jolly, and helping us to plant out the repulsive coastguard so
thoroughly.
Then he said, "Don't mention it. Did you tell your little gells what you
was up to?"
"No," said Oswald, "not till afterwards."
"Then you _can_ hold your tongues. Well, since you've acted so handsome
about that there pig, what's to be named for Stokes, I don't mind if I
tells you something. Only mum's the word."
We said we were quite sure it was.
"Well, then," said he, leaning over the pig-stye wall, and rubbing the
spotted pig's back with his stick. "It's an ill wind that blows no good
to nobody. You see, that night there was a little bird went an'
whispered to 'em up at Longbeach about our little bit of a keg. So when
we landed they was there."
"Of course," said Oswald.
"Well, if they was there they couldn't be somewheres else, could they?"
We owned they could not.
"I shouldn't wonder," he went on, "but what a bit of a cargo was run
that night further up the beach: something as _wasn't_ sea-water. I
don't say it was so, mind--and mind you don't go for to say it."
Then we understood that there is a little smuggling done still, and that
we had helped in it, though quite without knowing.
We were jolly glad. Afterwards, when we had had that talk with Father,
when he told us that the laws are made by the English people, and it is
dishonourable for an Englishman not to stick to them, we saw that
smuggling must be wrong.
But we have never been able to feel really sorry. I do not know why this
is.
_ZAIDA, THE MYSTERIOUS PROPHETESS OF THE GOLDEN ORIENT_
THIS is the story of how we were gipsies and wandering minstrels. And,
like everything else we did about that time, it was done to make money
for Miss Sandal, whose poorness kept on, making our kind hearts ache.
It is rather difficult to get up any good game in a house like Miss
Sandal's, where there is nothing lying about, except your own things,
and where everything is so neat and necessary. Your own clothes are
seldom interesting, and even if you change hats with your sisters it is
not a complete disguise.
The idea of being gipsies was due to Alice. She had not at all liked
being entirely out of the smuggling affray, though Oswald explained to
her that it was her own fault for having been born a girl. And, of
course, after the event, Dicky and I had some things to talk about that
the girls hadn't, and we had a couple of wet days.
You have no idea how dull you can be in a house like that, unless you
happen to know the sort of house I mean. A house that is meant for
plain living and high thinking, like Miss Sandal told us, may be very
nice for the high thinkers, but if you are not accustomed to thinking
high there is only the plain living left, and it is like boiled rice for
every meal to any young mind, however much beef and Yorkshire there may
be for the young insides. Mrs. Beale saw to our having plenty of nice
things to eat, but, alas! it is not always dinner-time, and in between
meals the cold rice-pudding feeling is very chilling. Of course we had
the splendid drawings of winged things made by our Flying Lodger, but
you cannot look at pictures all day long, however many coloured chalks
they are drawn with, and however fond you may be of them.
Miss Sandal's was the kind of house that makes you wander all round it
and say, "What shall we do next?" And when it rains the little ones get
cross.
It was the second wet day when we were wandering round the house to the
sad music of our boots on the clean, bare boards that Alice said--
"Mrs. Beale has got a book at her house called 'Napoleon's book of
Fate.' You might ask her to let you go and get it, Oswald. She likes you
best."
Oswald is as modest as any one I know, but the truth is the truth.
"We could tell our fortunes, and read the dark future," Alice went on.
"It would be better than high thinking without anything particular to
think about."