“Aye, a moighty good passon to we, sir. A true gen’leman as do ever tak’ our part, you be, sir.”
“Alas!” sighed Mr. Hartop. “Alas, that ye should need me so to do!... Pray show more care hereafter as regards my bells ... and mind, home all o’ ye, and forget not your prayers.... Good-night.”
So saying, Parson Hartop saluted them all with lifted hat and ambled away, whereupon the four worthies, big with the news, hasted forthwith to the ‘Market Cross Inn.’
“Ha!” quoth Mr. Pym, leaning upon his musket and looking after the parson’s retiring figure. “Said I not we were all smugglers hereabouts, Mr. Derwent? And yonder goeth the best of us all, a truly saintly man, sir. And now for Potter.”
They found the inn agog with the tidings.
“Guid save’s a’!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “what o’ poor Sharkie Nye?”
“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Bunkle, the philosopher, “never worrit! Life hath its downs as well as its ups, an’ Sharkie’ll never put in shore wi’out the signal.”
“But this looks like treachery, Peter!” fumed Sir Hector. “And syne they ken sae muckle ’tis vera like they’ll ken the signal likewise. Whaur’s Geordie? I maun hae a world wi’ Geordie Potter. Whaur bides he, Peter man?”
“A sight nigher than ’e seems, sir!” answered Mr. Bunkle and, winking, led them into his inner, much-doored holy of holies. Here he rapped certain times upon the panelling, and rap answered him; thereafter one of the five doors opened and Mr. Potter appeared, placid as ever and surprisingly neat, except for a cobweb adhering to one newly trimmed whisker.