“Wheer? Wheer?” asked he, with a shake of the head. “Nay, master, look round, and see if ’twill be easy for you to light upon ’em now!”
Tregenna did look round. He saw the close-packed cottages, some prim and neat, with a sort of look about them as if no creature within had ever heard of so terrible a thing as a smuggler: some dirty and neglected, and capable of anything: but all shut up, and without a human face at any window. One mean-looking little alehouse at the corner did certainly bear a sort of rakish, contraband look. But a peep within its doors showed that the landlord and one old man had it, to all appearances, to themselves.
Tregenna sighed, and frowned.
“Well, I must arrest you, Tom, and carry you off at least,” said he.
“I be smuggling naught, master!” objected Tom, quite mildly.
“You were signalman to the others,” answered Tregenna. “You’re one of the gang.”
Tom took this very quietly.
“All roight, take me if you will,” said he. “’Twas you, sir, that gave me the hurt makes me too lame to get away!” said he.
Tregenna frowned, and looked uneasily round at his own men, who, deeming him quite able to cope with this, the only one of the ruffians whom they had in their power, had dispersed in various directions, engaged in the rather hopeless task of ferreting out their lost enemies.
“I’d sooner have caught any one of the others, Tom,” said Tregenna, “than laid hands on thee.”