Late as it was, neither Dick nor Sam was fated to get any sleep for hours. They walked rapidly without speaking across the cliff towards the Towers, being in fact so tired and hungry that the thoughts of both were fixed on supper and bed. There was no path on this part of the cliff, except a faint track which daylight would have revealed, where the grass had been slightly worn by Joe Penwarden in his marchings to and fro. Ordinary pedestrians always avoided the windings of the shore, taking the high road farther inland.
The boys had come within a hundred yards of Penwarden's cottage, when Sam all at once took Dick by the sleeve, saying:
"Look, Maister Dick, there be some one at old Joe's door."
It was too dark to see clearly, but Dick could just distinguish, now that it was pointed out to him, a dark form close against the whitewashed cottage on the side facing the sea.
"It's very odd at this time of night," he said. "We had better go and tell the man, whoever he is, where he can find Joe."
They hurried on, but had not gone more than half-way to the cottage when the figure moved from the door, and walked quickly in the direction of the Towers. There was a footpath at the back of the garden, over which the villagers had an immemorial right of way, though it was really the Squire's private property.
Dick was on the point of calling out when Sam checked him.
"That be Jake Tonkin," he said, quietly: "I know un by his bow legs. What med he want wi' old Joe, now?"
Jake was the son of Isaac Tonkin, the expertest fisher, the boldest seaman, and the most cunning and resourceful smuggler in the village. Isaac was a rough, quick-tempered fellow, violent when roused, but honest according to his lights; and Dick had a certain admiration for him, as every boy must have for a strong man who excels in bold and daring deeds. Once or twice he had gone fishing in Tonkin's smack, and had learnt a good deal from the man's blunt speech and craftsmanlike actions.
It was perfectly well known in the neighbourhood that Tonkin was the ringleader of the smugglers, but owing to his wariness and craft, and to the supineness of the revenue officer who had preceded Mr. Mildmay, nothing had ever been openly proved against him, and he had never been caught in the act. In the previous winter he had narrowly escaped a conflict with Mr. Mildmay, then in his first year of duty at this part of the coast; and it was common talk in the village that he resented the intrusion, as he regarded it, of so zealous an officer, and had promised to give the revenue men a very hot time if they interfered with him. It was he whose presence John Trevanion had remarked as he passed the open door of the tap-room in Doubledick's inn.