“The beasts,” he said, as he looked in upon the drunken ruffians, some sleeping with their heads on the table, others fallen under it, and others stretched their length on the beds, or at the side of the room. “They will stay there quiet enough till I want them, and no one is likely to come prying this way to disturb their slumbers.”
Securely bolting the door of the house he passed by a back way into the mill, where, after giving some directions to Dusty Dick, he descended to the beach. A small boat lay there which he was able to launch by himself, and pulling off in her he went on board the lugger. He had left the most trusted part of his crew in her, including his mate, Tom Fidget, on whom he could always rely, not that Tom objected to get drunk “at proper times and seasons,” as he observed, but duty first and pleasure afterwards was his maxim. His notions of duty were, to be sure, somewhat lax, according to the strict rules of morality, and his only idea of pleasure was a drunken spree on shore when he could leave the craft without risk of her suffering damage either from wind and weather, or the officers of the law. He was a bullet-headed fellow, with a figure almost as wide as long, small keen eyes, and a turned up nose scarcely perceptible beyond his puffed out copper-coloured cheeks.
Pipe in mouth he was taking his usual fisherman’s walk, when the captain stepped on board.
“The craft shall not be kept here longer than can be helped, Tom, and you must be ready to start at a moment’s notice,” he observed. “I have some business to attend to first, however, so it won’t be for a day or two, though that does not matter, as the weather promises to hold fine. Only keep the fellows sober, for I have as many drunken men on shore as I can manage, and it won’t do to have all the hands in the same state. The next time it will be your turn to go on shore, and you may then drink as much liquor as you can hold, and enjoy yourself to your heart’s content.”
Gaffin having given these directions, returned on shore again. Several days passed and Gaffin again went in the evening to the Texford Arms to meet his hopeful son. The young gentleman was in, the landlady answered, in the room upstairs.
“Well, what progress have you made?” asked Gaffin, as he entered and found young Miles lounging lazily alone, a pipe in his mouth and a glass of brandy and water by his side.
“I thought I knew something about girls,” was the answer, “and that I could come round her much as I have done with others, who wouldn’t think themselves much beneath her, in our town, and I was not going to be stopped by any nonsense.”
“I don’t want to hear what you thought, but what you did,” said his father.
“Well, you shall, if that’s your wish,” answered Miles. “I went to church on Sunday and had a good look at her, and thought she saw me with my eyes fixed on her from one end of the service to the other, but she hurried home among a lot of people, and I hadn’t a chance of getting alongside to put in a word. For three whole days she never showed outside the gates, and I thought at last of going and calling on the old ladies with a story I had got up, but when I came to learn what sort of people they are, I found that would not do. Then I thought of another plan.”
“I tell you I don’t want your thought’s,” growled Gaffin. “What were your acts?”