Tom Tully growled, and the gunner walked down to where the waves beat upon the shingle just as the regular plash-plash of the oars told of the coming of the boat from the cutter with the boatswain in command, that worthy leaping ashore, followed by half a dozen men.
“What’s on?” he cried. “Have you found Muster Leigh?”
“No.”
“What did you signal for?”
“Boat. Ourn’s stove-in, and we’ve got knocked about awful.”
“What! by the smugglers?”
“Ay, my lad. They beat us off.”
“Then, now there’s reinforcements, let’s go and carry all afore us.”
“It’s all very fine for you, coming fresh and ready, to talk,” said the gunner; “but it ar’n’t no use, my lad—we’re reg’lar beat out. They got away somehow, and you want daylight to find ’em.”
“Then you may go up the side of the cutter first, my lad, that’s all I’ve got to say,” said the boatswain. “You don’t catch me facing the skipper to-night.”