Five minutes after they came upon Fisherman-farmer Shackle himself, leaning over his gate and smoking a pipe, as he apparently contemplated a pig, and wondered whether he ought to make it fatter than it was.
“Mornin’, gentlemen,” he said, as Archy and the master came up, and halted their men.
“Good morning,” said Archy shortly. “Stand aside, please; we must search all your places.”
“Search my places, squire—capt’n, I mean? He aren’t here.”
“Who is not here? Are not you the master?”
“Ay, my lad, but I mean him you’re searching for. Hi! Missus!”
“Yes,” came from within, and Mrs Shackle appeared wiping her hands.
“Ain’t seen a deserter, missus, have you? Capt’n here has lost one of his men.”
“If you’ll let me speak, I’ll explain,” said Archy sharply. “A cargo of contraband goods was landed on the rocks below the cliff last night, and—”
“You don’t say so, master!” said Shackle earnestly.