“What is it, my lad?” cried Hilary, running up.
“Only this here, sir,” said the man, pointing to a long narrow groove in the sand, just such as might have been made by the keel of some large boat, whilst a closer inspection showed that the sand and shingle had been trampled by many feet.
“Yes, that’s a boat, certainly,” said Hilary, looking shorewards towards the cliffs, which rose like a vast ramp along that portion of the coast.
There was nothing to be seen there; neither inlet nor opening in the rock, nor depression in the vast line of cliffs. Why, then, should a boat be run ashore there? It looked suspicious. Nothing but a fishing lugger would be likely to be about, and no fishing lugger would have any reason for running ashore here. Except at certain times of the tide it would be dangerous.
“It’s the smugglers, Billy,” cried Hilary eagerly; “and there must be some way here up the rock. Hallo! what have you got there?” he exclaimed, as the gunner, true to his instinct, dropped upon his knees and scraped the sand away from something against which he had kicked his foot.
“Pistol, sir,” was the reply; and the gunner brushed the sand off the large clumsy weapon, and wiped away the thin film of rust.
“And a Frenchman,” said Hilary, examining the make.
“Frenchman it is, sir, and she ar’n’t been many hours lying here.”
“Dropped by some one last night,” said Hilary. “Hurrah! my lads, we’ve struck the scent.”
Just then Tom Tully began to sniff very loudly, and turned his head in various directions, his actions somewhat resembling those of a great dog.