The sound of shuffling feet drew nearer, there was a noise like the throwing back of a curtain, and the cave was flooded with a subdued daylight.
The men feared no interruption, for they were singing a lusty song in broad Dorset dialect, the chorus of which ran:
"He used to laugh a horrible laugh,
His fav'rite cry was 'Priddys',
His life he held in his own right arm,
His soul was Cap'n Kiddie's!"
Often in my younger days had old Henry Martin and Master Collings told me tales of a buccaneering Captain Kidd and his bloodthirsty henchman, a renegade Scotsman called Angus Priddys, whose career was ended at Execution Dock; so I formed a conclusion that these smugglers were men whose illicit dealings were not the worst of their accomplishments.
Through a knot hole in the side of the box I could see the whole of the rascally crew.
There were about thirty, all well armed and dressed in usual mariner's style, save that two or three wore smocks. Several carried beakers on their shoulders, while two bore between them a small but heavy chest. They had evidently had a successful haul, for all were in high spirits, and the chorus of their gruesome song echoed along the walls of the cavern. The refrain was interrupted by one of the men exclaiming that their stores had been disturbed, and a search commenced which might have ended with my discovery but for the fact that in the far end of the cave, immediately underneath the funnel through which I had fallen, lay the dead body of a fox, whose body had broken my headlong descent. Deeming this a satisfactory explanation for this interruption, the rogues resumed their carousing.
I could now see how near I had been to regaining my freedom, for just beyond the place where my tour of exploration had abruptly terminated was the entrance to the cave, skilfully hidden by a heavy screen of painted canvas that, even at a short distance, would deceive all who were not acquainted with the secret.
For nearly an hour the smugglers devoted themselves to a reckless carouse, till at length their leader called for silence. With a discipline that is rare amongst such people, the gang sat down on barrels and rough stools and awaited their captain's orders.
In the broad Dorset dialect their leader recounted the various successful runs they had made, as if vainglorious of their deeds, and finished by demanding: "Be there any of ye as be not content with his share?"
Their answer, with one voice, was "No". "Then," resumed the speaker, "if so be as that ye are all content, how comes it that one of ye must needs taake bloodmoney from the gaugers? And how comes it that dree[1] of our'n have been stuck wi' a Bridport dagger?"[2]