"Never bin into the village since I gave up fishing, sir. I get all my victuals from Wynport, and often don't set eyes on the village folk from week-end to week-end, except at Church at Wickham Ferrers on Sunday."
"Why you're quite a hermit—almost as bad as Congleton."
"True, sir, but I've never bin crossed in love, 'cos I never seed a maid I fancied afore I lost my leg, and there's ne'er a maid would take a fancy to a poor chap with a stump like this. And I'm afeard of going like Congleton, sir."
"Yes, but, Gumley, never mind about that. Tell me straight out, man; are the people in Luscombe below there smugglers or not—the whole crew of 'em, I mean?"
"Well, since you put it plain, sir, I wouldn't be surprised if some of 'em think a sight more of French brandy than of Jamaica rum."
"That's no answer, you old rascal. Well, I'm going down to the village to have a look round. I saw some neat little smacks at the jetty yesterday, and one of 'em put out pretty smartly, too: was uncommonly well handled."
"Well, sir, you be a fine, mettlesome young gentleman; but if so be as I might advise you, I'd say keep your weather-eye open. If so be they are a smuggling lot below—well, they won't be exactly main pleased to see a king's officer."
"Bless you, they won't know me. I'm not in uniform, you see. Nobody knows who I am but my cousins and you and Mr. Gudgeon."
"True, sir; and me and Mr. Gudgeon keeps ourselves to ourselves, to be sure."
CHAPTER III