“Say, Mester Gurr, sir, which thankful I am to you for speaking so; but you don’t really think as he has come to harm?”
“I hope not, Dick; I hope not; but smugglers don’t stand at anything sometimes.”
Dick sighed, and then all at once he spat in his fist, rubbed his hands together and clenched them, a hard, fierce aspect coming into his rough dark face, which seemed to promise severe retaliation if anything had happened to the young officer.
There was nowhere else to search as far as Gurr could see, save the little farm in the hollow, and the black-looking stone house up on the hill among the trees.
Gurr, who looked wonderfully bull-dog like in aspect, made straight for the farm, where the first person he encountered was Mrs Shackle, who, innocent enough, poor woman, came to the door to bob a curtsey to the king’s men, while Jemmy Dadd, who was slowly loading a tumbril in whose shafts was the sleepy grey horse, stuck his fork down into the heap of manure from the cow-sheds, rested his hands on the top and his chin upon his hands, to stare and grin at the sailors he recognised.
“Morning, marm,” said Gurr; “sorry to trouble you, but—”
“Oh, sir,” interrupted Mrs Shackle, “surely you are not going to tumble over my house again! I do assure you there’s nothing here but what you may see.”
“If you’d let me finish, you’d know,” said Gurr gruffly. “One of our boys is missing. Seen him up here? Boy ’bout seventeen with a red cap.”
“No, sir; indeed I’ve not.”
“Don’t know as he has been seen about here, do you?” said Gurr, looking at her searchingly.