“Nay, sir; nothin’ comes off,” said the man dolefully. “’Tis my natur too, but it seems werry hard to be called dirty, when you arn’t.”
“There, I beg pardon, Dick, and I will not call you so any more.”
“Thankye, sir; I s’pose you mean it, but you’ll let it out again soon as you forget.”
“No, I will not, Dick. But, I say, look here: you are a cheat, though, are you not?”
“Me, sir? No!” cried the man excitedly.
“I mean about the Lincolnshire coast. Confess it isn’t half so beautiful as this.”
“Oh, yes it is, sir. It’s so much flatter. Why, you can’t hardly find a place to land here, without getting your boat stove in.”
“If all’s true, the smugglers know how to land things,” said Archibald, as he gazed thoughtfully at the cliffs.
“Oh, them! O’ course, sir, they can go up the cliffs, and over ’em like flies in sugar basins. They get a spar over the edge, with a reg’lar pulley, and lets down over the boats, and then up the kegs and bales comes.”
“Ah, well, we must catch them at it some day, Dick, and then there’ll be lots o’ prize-money for you all.”