“Of course she is,” cried the lieutenant testily. “Women are sure to be sick if you bring them to sea. But look here, my good fellow, English gentleman or no English gentleman, you can’t deceive me. Now then, what have you got on board?”
“Fish, I believe,” said Sir Henry.
“Yes, of course,” sneered the lieutenant; “and brandy, and silk, and velvet, and lace. Now then, skipper, you are caught this time. But look here, you scoundrel, what do you mean by pretending to be a Frenchman?”
“Frenchman? Frenchman?” said the skipper with a look of extreme stupidity. “You said I was a Dutchman.”
“You lie, you scoundrel. Here, come forward and move that sail and those nets. Now no nonsense; set your fellows to work.”
He clapped his hand sharply on the skipper’s shoulder, and turned him round, following him forward.
“Take a man, Mr Leigh, and search that dog-hole.”
Hilary Leigh was astounded, for knowing what he did he expected that the lieutenant would have instantly divined what seemed patent to him—that Sir Henry Norland was trying, for some reason or another, to get back to England, and that although the lugger was commanded by an Englishman, she was undoubtedly a French chasse marée from Saint Malo.
But the lieutenant had got it into his head that he had overhauled a smuggling vessel laden with what would turn into prize-money for himself and men, and the thought that she might be bound on a political errand did not cross his mind.
“I’ll search fully,” said Leigh; and bidding the sailor with the long pigtail stay where he was, the young officer bent down and crept in under the half-deck just as the fainting girl recovered.