“I say, you fellows,” shouted one of them, “come along here and carry our portmanteaus to the inn, if there is one in that village there, and tell us if we can find a post-chaise or conveyance of some sort to take us to Elverston Hall.”
“Don’t you answer,” said Ben to Dick, hammering on and pretending not to notice what was said.
“Ahoy, there! don’t you hear us? Knock off that work!” cried the younger of the two midshipmen, and he repeated what he had just said.
“Yes, we hear,” growled Ben looking up; “but we are not slaves to come and go at your beck, youngster.”
“We don’t want you to carry our traps for nothing, my man,” said the elder midshipman. “We’ll give a shilling to each of you for the job, and that’s handsome pay.”
“To those who want it, it may be,” said Ben; “but that youngster there must learn to keep a civil tongue in his head if he expects any one to help him. Hurst beach ain’t the deck of a man-of-war, and one chap here is as good as another, so you may just let your own people carry up your traps.”
The crew of the boat sat grinning as they heard the smuggler bandying words with their officers, siding probably with the former.
“Do you know to whom you are speaking, my man?” exclaimed the elder midshipman. “This is Lord Reginald Oswald, and his father is the Marquis of Elverston. His lordship will be exceedingly angry when he hears the way you have treated his son.”
Ben, turning away his head, muttered loud enough for his companion to hear him, “He might be the marquis himself for what I care; but I’m not his lordship’s slave to come and go at his beck any more than I am yours.”
Dick looked hard at the young lord, and the recollection of their former intercourse would have made him unwilling to do as he was asked, even had the request been couched in less dictatorial language.