Mr. Gudgeon had led Jack into a large stone-flagged room, with a low ceiling of whitewashed rafters. He disappeared, and Jack, left to himself, took off his boots and stockings and sat on the broad, high ledge of the window. In one corner he noticed a long leather-bound telescope, and taking it up he looked out to sea. A few fishing boats dotted the shining surface, their brown sails just appearing above the edge of the cliff. In the offing a large lugger lay, apparently hove to. He was still peering through the glass when the farmer returned, carrying a tray with bottles and glasses. A servant came after him, and took away the wet boots and stockings.
"Now, sir," he said. "You have your choice. Here is brandy, and sloe gin, and cider—"
"Thanks, Mr. Gudgeon, a glass of cider for me; 'tis a cool drink for a hot day."
"To be sure," rejoined Mr. Gudgeon; "though for myself I find brandy the best cure for the flutters. You were taking a peep through my spy-glass, sir?"
"Yes: a good glass."
"Not bad, sir, not bad. And a clear day. But not much to see, sir, to-day."
"No. There's a lugger in the offing; and French by the cut of her."
"Surely not, sir," cried Mr. Gudgeon, taking up the glass. "Dear, dear! I'm all in a flutter again, sir. A French lugger, sir! 'Tis surely too near our coast to be safe."
"Yes, and I hope the Pandora will catch her; she's sailing this afternoon."
"To be sure, sir. The impudence of these Frenchmen! But I don't think she's French, after all; there's a lugger much like her down in Luscombe yonder. And you're an officer of the Fury? I've seen the Fury more than once, sir. She cruised about a good deal last winter on the lookout for smugglers. But she's laid up at Wynport now, I'm told."