"Casks!"
"What did I promise you?" Mr. Smellie turned to Captain Arbuthnot in triumph. "Luxmore!" he called aloud.
"Ay, ay, sir!" came the Chief Boatman's voice in answer.
"There's a plank handy. Roll us a sample or two ashore here, and fetch along chisel and auger."
"If you think it necessary, sir—"
"Do as you're told, man!… Ah, here we are!"—as a couple of preventive men splashed ashore, trundling a cask along the plank between them, and up-ended it close by the water's edge.
Captain Arbuthnot had dismounted and, advancing with his arm through his charger's bridle, bent over the cask.
"Devilish queer-smelling brandy!" he observed, drawing back a pace and sniffing.
"It has been standing in the bilge. These fellows never clean out their boats from one year's end to another," said Mr. Smellie, positively. Yet he, too, eyed the cask with momentary suspicion. In shape, in colour, it resembled the tubs in which Guernsey ordinarily exported its eau-de-vie. It was slung, too, ready for carriage, and with French left-handed rope, and yet.… It seemed unusually large for a Guernsey tub… and unusually light in scantling.…
"Shall I spile en, maister?" asked one of the preventive men, producing a large auger.