“Very right, an excellent spirit in youth,” he said heartily. “Go in and conquer—sweep all before you. That’s how I like to hear young people talk. It is for the old with our gouty feet and long experience to sit at home and think out campaigns, and for you, the young and healthful in body, to carry them out gloriously.”
He slapped his knee in applause at his own words, and then, as the young man said nothing, but sat still smiling into the fire, he continued, his voice resuming the pompous note.
“But believe me, you have a difficult task, as I said before—a difficult task indeed. Now let me advise you first to attack the smuggling here on the mainland. Had you half a troop of infantry it would be madness to attempt to quieten Mersea Island.”
Playle sat up and became interested.
“The Island,” he said. “Yes, I’ve heard of the smuggling there; the block-house there was well-guarded in the war, I know.”
Master Myddleton waved him silent, and continued to talk. “There are two principal smuggling vessels,” he said casually. “The first, The Dark Blood, belongs to a man called de Witt, and then the Coldlight, which belongs to a mysterious Spaniard.”
Young Playle gasped. That the old man should know all this and yet take no measures to stop it amazed him, and his youthful imagination began to play round his old ambitions until he saw himself lord of the customs and His Majesty’s right-hand man.
“Why not stop all vessels that enter the river?” he said.
“I had thought of it—I had thought of it,” said Myddleton, wagging his head sagely.
“Well, I’m going to do it,” replied Playle quickly.