“And for you too, sir; officers comes first. But we arn’t got the prize yet, and it’s my belief as we shan’t get it.”
“Why?”
“Because it seems to me as there’s something not all right about these here craft.”
“Of course there is, they are smugglers.”
“Yes, sir, and worse too. If they was all right, we shouldn’t ha’ been cruising ’bout here seven weeks, and never got a sight o’ one of ’em, when we know they’ve been here all the time.”
“I don’t understand you, Dick,” said the middy, as he watched the going and coming of the rock pigeons which flew straight for the cliff, seemed to pass right in, and then dashed out.
“Well, sir, I can’t explain it. Them there’s things as you can’t explain, nor nobody else can’t.”
He wrinkled up his face and shook his head, as if there were a great deal more behind.
“Now, what are you talking about, Dick?” cried the lad. “You don’t mean that the smuggler’s a sort of ghost, and his lugger’s all fancy?”
“Well, not exactly, sir, because if they was, they couldn’t carry real cargoes, which wouldn’t be like the smuggler and his lugger, sir, and, of course, then the kegs and lace wouldn’t be no good. But there’s a bit something wrong about these here people, and all the men thinks so too.”