“I do say so,” cried Archy; “and you are suspected of having them concealed here.”
“Me!” cried Shackle, bursting into a roar of laughter. “Me, Mr Orficer? Do you know what I am?”
“No.”
“Why, I’m a farmer. Hi, missus, hear him! Young gent here thinks I’m a smuggler. That is a good un, and no mistake.”
Archy was taken aback for the moment, but he caught the eye of the master, who was too old over the business to be easily hoodwinked.
“The young gentleman’s made quite a mistake,” said Mrs Shackle demurely. “P’r’aps he’d like a mug of our mead before he goes, and his men a drop of home-brewed.”
“Ay, to be sure,” cried Shackle. “Put out the bread and cheese, missus, and I’ll go and draw a drink or two. You’ll take something too, won’t you, master?”
“Yes; don’t mind,” said Gurr, “but I’d rather take a tot o’ right Nantes or Hollands.”
“Ay, so would I,” said Shackle, with a laugh, as his wife began to bustle about and get knives and plates; “but you’ve come to the wrong place, master. I have heared o’ people getting a drop from ’em, after they’ve used their horses and carts, but that’s never been my luck; has it, missus?”
“No, never,” said Mrs Shackle; and to herself,—“That’s quite true.”