“Yes, father,” said Ram, handing the key. “Lugger gone?”
“Hour and a half ago, lad; just got her empty as the tide turned. Best run we’ve had.”
He burst into a low fit of chuckling.
“What are you laughing at, father?”
“I was thinking how artful revenue cutters are, boy. I don’t believe that White Hawk’s more than half a mile away.”
“But then see what a fog it was, father?”
“Tchah! To me it’s just the same as a moonshiny night, boy. There, come on home and get to bed. Must be up early; lots to do to-day.”
Seeing that it could not be long before morning, Ram asked himself what was the use of his going to bed; but he said nothing, only hurried to keep pace with his father; and soon after, feeling fagged out, he was fast asleep, and dreaming that whenever he piled the kegs up they kept on rolling down about him, and that the midshipman from the White Hawk stood looking on, and laughing at him for being clumsy, and then he awoke fancying he was called.
It was quite right, for Farmer Shackle was shouting—
“Now you, Ramillies, are you going to sleep there all day?”