Having in vain tried to find any other outlet, I ran up the steps again to the gallery, looked out of one of several windows to ascertain if I could reach the ground by any of the woodwork; but the height was too great to allow me to drop out without danger of breaking my legs. I observed several people in the distance passing along by a path which led by the foot of a hill on which the mill was situated. My first thought was that they were smugglers; but then I recollected that such characters were not likely to be abroad in a body during daylight, and the glitter of the gold lace round the cap of one of them convinced me that they were the revenue-men. I shouted at the top of my voice. Hungry and faint as I was, it did not sound as loud as usual. They did not hear me. I was afraid they would go on. Again and again I shouted. One of the men turned his head. Having no handkerchief, in a moment I stripped off my shirt, and waved it wildly out of the window. The men saw it, and came hurrying up the hill.
“Who are you, youngster?” shouted one of the men as they came near.
“Master Cheveley, son of the Vicar of Sandgate,” I answered.
“Why, he looks more like the ghost of a miller,” said one of the men.
“How did you get up there?” inquired the first speaker a head boatman in charge of the party.
“I got up out of a vault where the smugglers put me,” I answered. “Make haste and come in, for I’m almost starved.”
“Here’s a door,” cried the head boatman; “but I say, mates, it’s locked. Is there no other way in?” he shouted.
“None that I know of,” I answered. “I have been trying to open the door, but could not.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” said the man.
And he with two others placing their shoulders to it quickly sent it flying inward shattered into fragments, the rotten wood giving way before their sturdy shoves.