"Yet, if I have heard aright, you were not always a soldier," sneered Sharkley, who despised monetary scruples that were beyond his comprehension.
"No," replied Braddon, his wrinkled cheek flushing with anger as he spoke; "I was in my youth a smuggler, and here in Cornwall ain't ashamed to say so. I know well the Isles of Scilly, and every creek and cranny in those whose inhabitants are only gulls and rabbits; for in them, as in the Piper's Hole at Tresco, and in many a place hereby known only to myself now, have I at the risk of my life by steel and lead, and storm, run the kegs of Cognac and the negrohead, that never paid duty to the Crown. But what of that; I am not a smuggler now, though I had to bolt for being one! I suppose few will dispute that you have been a lawyer in heart since you first saw the light, or learned to steal your school-mates' apples and nuts, till able to aim at bigger prizes—eh?"
"Come, don't let us quarrel after so pleasant an evening, Mr. Braddon," urged Sharkley, deprecatingly.
"I ain't Mister Braddon," said the old soldier, doggedly; "I am only plain Derrick Braddon, once full private, and No. 2006 in Captain Trevelyan's company of the Old Cornish; and now, I think, I shall turn in."
Sharkley succeeded in talking the veteran into a better humour again, to throw him off his guard; but his eyes never wandered from that left breast pocket where the outline of the tin case was distinctly visible, impressed on the worn-out, faded cloth.
As the storm continued, he remained all night at the Trevanion Arms; and, after assuring himself that Derrick Braddon had no intention of leaving the neighbourhood in a hurry, an early hour next morning saw him spinning along the Cornwall and Devon Railway, in a corner of a third-class carriage, en route to Rhoscadzhel.
END OF VOL. II.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.