Swift to seize his chance, Kit rushed the crest, the crash of the
Frenchman's retreat drowning his approach.
There, flat on his face, he peeped.
Beneath him, on the run of the shingle, lay the lugger. Her jib was flapping; the mainsail set for the hoisting; every stick and stay in place. Half a dozen burly Grenadiers, black-muzzled with a week's beard, were busy about her, stowing their kits, laughing and chattering.
A sprightly little Corporal, balancing on the stern, was spitting forth orders.
The foreign language, there on his native shore, made a discord in the boy's heart.
"Quand partirons-nous?" asked François, wading down the shingle, pack on back.
"Aussitôt que tout sera prêt la-bas," answered the corporal, casting a glance over his shoulder. "Bah! ces gueux d'Anglais! Monsieur le Général en a par dessus les yeux."
Kit followed the man's eyes.
III
A track of feet led from the lugger to the creek across the wet sand. Along it a tail of smugglers were trundling barrels gingerly. At the entrance to the sluice others were hoisting and heaving. Above them stood that slight figure against the sky-line, the ominous pistol lurking behind him.