“I oughtn’t to tell,” he whispered back.
“But you’ll tell me. I won’t say a word to a soul,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know. I’m not sure, but—”
Bigley paused, and looked round again before putting his lips close to my ear and whispering softly:
“I think he is.”
“I’m sure of it,” I whispered back; “and I know he goes out in his lugger to meet French boats and Dutch boats, and makes no end of money by smuggling.”
“Who told you that?” whispered Bigley fiercely.
“Nobody. It’s what everybody says of him. They all say that he’ll be caught and hanged some day for it—hung in chains; but of course I hope he won’t, Big, because of you.”
“It’s all nonsense. It isn’t true,” said Bigley indignantly, “and those who talk that way are far more likely to be hung themselves. But I wish your father hadn’t bought the Gap.”
“I don’t,” I said. “He had a right to buy it if he liked, and I don’t see what business it is of your father. Why don’t he attend to his fishing?”