To the progress of that day no part of this narrative need be devoted; suffice it that we meet the men again coming homeward under an early, universal twilight and a cold northern wind. In certain marshes, rumoured to send forth warm springs even at dead of frosty nights, John Aggett had found good sport, and now from the servant’s waist-girdle a big bag bulged with two brace of teal, three snipe, two woodcock and a hare. Through the grey promise of coming snow they pushed homeward where the wind wailed a sad harmony in the dead heath, and all the ground was very hard save upon the black bogs that froze not. John was clad as the Kurds and Mountain Syrians to this day; he wore a sheep’s pelt with the hair toward his body, the skin turned out. Arms of like material fitted into this snug vest, and his breeches were similarly fashioned. Timothy, as he faced the north wind booming over a heather ridge, envied Aggett, for his own garments, albeit stout enough, lacked the warmth of the natural skin.
“Colder and colder,” he said, “and the last drop of sloe gin drunk and five good miles before us yet.”
“’Tis so; but theer’s Gammer Gurney’s cot down along in a lew place under Yar Tor. If you mind to turn out of the way a bit, ’tis certain she’ll have gude, heartening liquors hid away, though how she comes by the fiery stuff, an’ the tobacco her sells in secret, an’ the frill-de-dills o’ precious silks an’ foreign lace-work ban’t my business to knaw.”
“Good! We’ll pay Gammer a visit. My father gets many a gill of brandy from the old rascal.”
“In league wi’ the Dowl, I doubt.”
“More likely with the smugglers. Plenty of cargoes are run down Teignmouth way, and when they’ve dodged the gaugers and made a good haul, the farther they take their wares inland the better. She pays them well, be sure.”
“She do awften talk ’bout a sailor son, come to think on’t.”
“Ay, many and many a sailor son, I warrant you! My father says her cognac is drink for the gods; yet if they are pleased to make him a Justice of the Peace, then he will adopt different measures with Mother Gurney, for a man’s conscience must be set above his stomach.”
“Her be a baggarin’ auld sarpent for sartain, an’ goeth through the air on a birch broom or awver the sea in a eggshell, an’ many such-like devilries. In times past I judge the likes o’ she would burn for such dark wickednesses; though her did me a gude turn once, I’ll allow.”
While speaking, they had rounded the ragged side of Yar Tor, and then proceeding, passed to the north by some ancient hut circles of the old stone men. Following a wall, where the hill sloped, they found themselves confronted with the bird’s-eye view of a lonely, thatched cottage. Below it the land sank with abruptness; before the entrance extended a square patch of garden. No sign of life marked the spot; but as the men climbed down a pathway through withered fern, they aroused a bob-tailed, blue-eyed sheep-dog which leapt, gaunt and apelike, to the limit of its tether and barked wildly at the intruders. A naked austerity, a transparent innocence and poverty, marked the spot to casual eyes.