Cover

"Surrender, in the king's name!" shouted Jack. Page [121]

JACK HARDY

A Story of English Smugglers in the Days of Napoleon

By

HERBERT STRANG

Author of
Fighting on the Congo
In Clive's Command
On the Trail of the Arabs, etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
WILLIAM RAINEY, R. I.

INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT 1906, 1907
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I [The Road to Luscombe]
II [Monsieur De Fronsac]
III [A Fight in Luscombe Market]
IV [Congleton's Hollow]
V [A Midnight Excursion]
VI [Signals]
VII [The Best-Laid Schemes]
VIII [Congleton's Folly]
IX [Close Quarters]
X [A Prisoner of France]
XI [A Break for Freedom]
XII [The Capture of the *Glorieuse*]
XIII [Off Luscombe]
XIV [A Discovery]
XV [Tar and Feathers]
XVI [A Run at Sandy Cove]
XVII [Diamond Cut Diamond]
XVIII [The Battle of Binsey Cove]
XIX [Some Appointments]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

["Surrender, in the king's name!" shouted Jack] . . . Frontispiece

["Steady, Mr. Gudgeon, steady!" cried Jack]

[Jack, with a straight right-hander, sent him spinning over]

["If you make a movement, I shall fire"]

JACK HARDY

CHAPTER I

THE ROAD TO LUSCOMBE

The first time Jack Hardy met Mr. Nathaniel Gudgeon was also the occasion of his first visit to Luscombe.

It happened in this way.

"Good-by, my boy," said his father, as Jack clambered on to the roof of the coach at the White Hart, Southwark, "and be sure you don't forget your Cousin Bastable, or your mother will never forgive you."

"All right, father. I'll take a look at him if I get a chance. I say, coachman, you'll let me have a drive?"

The coachman could not turn his head, because the collar of his coat was stiff and his neck brawny; but he screwed his left eye into the corner, winked, and gave a hoarse chuckle.

"I've seed Jack Tars on donkeys, and orficers on hosses," said he. "Lor' bless you, I knows 'em."

Which was the beginning of an argument that lasted all the way to Guildford.

Jack was on his way to Wynport to join H.M.S. Fury. Ten miles beyond Wynport lay the little village of Luscombe, and two miles beyond Luscombe was Bastable Grange, where his mother's cousin, Humfrey Bastable, lived. Jack had never seen Mr. Bastable; a hundred years ago relatives separated by a hundred miles of turnpike road saw very little of one another. But Mrs. Hardy had been very fond of her Cousin Humfrey when they were boy and girl together, and now that her son was going within easy walking distance of Bastable Grange, she insisted that Jack should go over and pay his respects.

Jack had just been transferred to the Fury from the frigate Ariadne, much to his disgust. In the Ariadne he had hoped to have an opportunity of joining Admiral Nelson's fleet and fighting the French; the Fury was engaged in the humdrum and much less heroic work, as Jack regarded it, of hunting smugglers. But Jack was of a cheerful disposition, and by the time he arrived at Wynport he had forgotten his disappointment, for the coachman had let him take the ribbons for five good miles of the road, and he had nearly upset the coach in a ditch, nearly massacred a flock of geese, and nearly taken off the wheel of a carrier's cart, which was excitement enough for one day.

When he arrived at Wynport he found that it would be three or four days before the Fury was ready for sea. To Jack's eyes she appeared anything but furious, shored up high and dry in the yard, with huge balks of timber supporting her hull. "Wretched cockle-shell!" he said to himself, as he looked at her. But, having several days to spare, he thought he might as well spend the time in looking up his Cousin Bastable. Lieutenant Blake, commanding the Fury, good-naturedly gave Mr. Midshipman Hardy leave to visit his mother's relatives, so Jack slung his valise on to a carrier's cart that would jog to Bastable in the course of the day, and started to trudge over the cliffs. He had been told that he might save a matter of an hour by taking the shorter road by Wickham Ferrers; but it was a bright September day, exceptionally hot for the time of year, and there was more chance of a breeze by the cliffs. Besides, Jack preferred when he could to keep within sight of the sea.

He had no company for the first part of the journey, and that was a trial to a lad of Jack's sociable disposition. As became a midshipman of his Majesty's navy, he was ready to talk freely with peer or peasant. The few people he saw were going in the opposite direction, and though in pleasant country fashion they "passed the time of day," there was no occasion for stopping to chat. But, about five miles out of Wynport, he saw just ahead of him, on the winding white road, a man with a wooden leg, stumping along beside a donkey-cart. The man had a broad back and looked a sturdy fellow. The day being hot he had stripped off his coat, which dangled from a nail in the tail-board of the cart; and he carried in his left hand a glazed hat.

Jack was almost abreast of the cart when the man heard his footsteps, turned, and seeming to recognize him, pulled his forelock and said:

"Morning, sir, morning."

"Good morning. Uncommon hot, isn't it? You seem to know me?"

"Not to say know, sir. I've seed ye, that's all. I've been to Wynport; I goes there twice a week with my old moke here, and a cargo of fruit or vegetables, times and seasons according. And when I goes to Wynport, in course I looks up old messmates."

"You've been a sailor, then?"

"Nigh thirty year, sir! Joe Gumley my name: ranked A.B. when I got my leg shot off in a' action with a French privateer six year ago. In course I were discharged then. I were a fisherman till they pressed me for the navy, so when I were no more use to his Majesty, sir, I come back to my native place, which be Luscombe, sir, and what with fishing and gardening and such like I manage to make both ends meet, as they say. I've got a tidy bit of cottage at a low rent from Squire Bastable—"

"Oh! he's my cousin."

"Now, if you'd said uncle, sir—"

"Well, he's my mother's cousin; my second cousin, I suppose."

"Not having any myself, I don't know second from first. Howsomever, as I were saying, I've give up the fishing now; but I keep to the gardening—not an easy job with this stump of mine, 'cos when I'm digging the misbehaving thing will sink in, and it takes a terrible time to be always heaving it out. Like as if you was to have to drop anchor and heave it again every knot you made. But I've got over that there little contrariness by taking a square bit of board with me now. When I'm going to dig, down goes the board, I sticks my stump on that, and so we gets on as merry as you please, 'cos when I want to shift, all I've got to do is to kick the board along a few inches, and there we are."

"Well, but how came you to know me?"

"Only seed you, sir. I was over at Wynport, as I were saying, and only this morning I comed across my old messmate, Ben Babbage, what was pressed along o' me. He's now bo'sun of the Fury, and we was having a smoke and a chat about old times when you come down the yard along o' the lieutenant, and Ben says to me: 'Joe,' says he, 'that's Mr. Hardy, the new midshipman.' That's how I knowed your name, but I didn't know as how you was cousin to squire, though to be sure, now I look at you, sir, you do seem to have something of his figurehead about you."

"Talking of figureheads, that's a queer-looking thing yonder."

He pointed to a tower that just showed above the trees in the distance. In shape it was not unlike a mushroom, the top and part of the stalk being visible.

"That?" said Gumley. "Queer, indeed. That be Congleton's Folly."

"And who was Congleton?"

"A man, sir, leastways a madman. Where he hailed from no one knowed, but years and years ago, when I was a' infant in arms, Congleton suddenlike come to Luscombe. He was a man about fifty then, and 'twas said that having waited to that age to fall in love, he got it very bad with a widder, who wouldn't have him. Love seems to be like measles, better had young. Well, Congleton took it so to heart that he made up his mind to live forlorn and lonely ever more. So he built a kind o' summer-house in the Hollow yonder; and when he tired o' that he set a small army o' laborers building the Folly, for so it got to be called; and there he lived for a dozen years in one room at the top all by himself, seeing nobody, having his food sent up twice a week by a pulley. And then he died. Congleton's Folly 'twas called then, and so it be called to this day: a sort of wilderness all round it, and a fearsome place on a dark night."

The old tar talked on, Jack doing the listening, until they came to a spot where, just after the road crossed a deep chine cutting through the cliff to the sea, there stood a large farm-building by the roadside.

"Is that one of my cousin's farms?" asked Jack.

"No, sir, that be Mr. Gudgeon's freehold."

Jack glanced at it idly. It was an old roving building of stone, with gables and mullioned windows, many barns and outhouses hemming it in. Across the road was the farmyard, with a large pond skirting the roadway; and beyond it a level triangular stretch of pasture and cornland extending to the edge of the cliff, which here jutted out prominently into the sea.

Just before they reached the farm-house, Jack noticed a dense cloud of smoke pouring from one of the chimneys.

"The kitchen chimney's afire, I suppose," he said.

"Ay, ay, sir. Mr. Gudgeon do have a bad lot o' chimbleys. And there's a many in Luscombe, too. Plenty of jobs hereabouts for a good sweep! And there's Mr. Gudgeon himself—Nathaniel's his chrisom name."

A very big burly man, curiously short in the legs, made his appearance in the doorway, and walking backwards across the road, watched the black column of smoke drifting slowly eastward on the light breeze.

So closely was his attention fixed that he did not at once notice the pedestrians or the donkey-cart, and not until he had backed almost across the road did he suddenly catch sight of Joe Gumley. Then he started slightly, and his attention being now divided between the old sailor and the chimney on fire, he failed to observe a deep rut left by a passing wagon, that had evidently been driven into the pond to allow the horses to drink.

The result of the oversight was unfortunate. One of the short legs disappeared into the rut; there was a wild flourish of arms; and then the big unwieldy body toppled backward into the pond.

Jack could not forbear smiling. Gumley gave a quiet chuckle, and to Jack's surprise stumped on, not offering to help the farmer out. But the lad sprang forward impulsively, splashed into the water, and held out his hands to the miserable dripping object still floundering there, unable to gain a foothold on the clayey mud of the bottom.

"Steady, Mr. Gudgeon, steady!" cried Jack encouragingly. "Haul on, sir. Yo heave ho! and up we come!"

"Steady, Mr. Gudgeon, steady!" cried Jack

"Thank'ee, sir," said Mr. Gudgeon, spluttering. He had evidently swallowed more of the muddied water than he cared for. "But how—ugh!—how do you—ugh!—know my name, sir?"

"Why, that old sailor man told me—Gumley, you know: we hitched on some miles up the road there."

"Yes, yes, of course: yes, yes. I'm all of a flutter, sir; my heart goes pit-a-pat. Ugh! That water is rank, and—and I—I feel quite upset. It was Gumley; of course it was: and he told you my name. Yes, to be sure. And you, sir, I might guess, are a king's officer, sir?"

"Oh, yes! My ship's the Fury"

"Why, to be sure! Come in, sir. You must dry your boots. Take them off, sir. I will take off my wet things and be with you in a few moments. Sit you down, sir."

Mr. Gudgeon had led Jack into a large stone-flagged room, with a low ceiling of whitewashed rafters. He disappeared, and Jack, left to himself, took off his boots and stockings and sat on the broad, high ledge of the window. In one corner he noticed a long leather-bound telescope, and taking it up he looked out to sea. A few fishing boats dotted the shining surface, their brown sails just appearing above the edge of the cliff. In the offing a large lugger lay, apparently hove to. He was still peering through the glass when the farmer returned, carrying a tray with bottles and glasses. A servant came after him, and took away the wet boots and stockings.

"Now, sir," he said. "You have your choice. Here is brandy, and sloe gin, and cider—"

"Thanks, Mr. Gudgeon, a glass of cider for me; 'tis a cool drink for a hot day."

"To be sure," rejoined Mr. Gudgeon; "though for myself I find brandy the best cure for the flutters. You were taking a peep through my spy-glass, sir?"

"Yes: a good glass."

"Not bad, sir, not bad. And a clear day. But not much to see, sir, to-day."

"No. There's a lugger in the offing; and French by the cut of her."

"Surely not, sir," cried Mr. Gudgeon, taking up the glass. "Dear, dear! I'm all in a flutter again, sir. A French lugger, sir! 'Tis surely too near our coast to be safe."

"Yes, and I hope the Pandora will catch her; she's sailing this afternoon."

"To be sure, sir. The impudence of these Frenchmen! But I don't think she's French, after all; there's a lugger much like her down in Luscombe yonder. And you're an officer of the Fury? I've seen the Fury more than once, sir. She cruised about a good deal last winter on the lookout for smugglers. But she's laid up at Wynport now, I'm told."

"Yes, or I shouldn't be here."

"Ah! I wondered, now, what brought you to this quiet little place. Maybe you have friends in the neighborhood, sir?"

"I'm going to see my cousin, Mr. Bastable. I dare say you know him?"

"Know the squire! To be sure: a customer of mine. Ah! as I was saying, there's a good deal of smuggling on this part of the coast: so the common talk is, sir. Luscombe yonder is suspected, so 'tis said. Mr. Goodman, the new riding-officer, has his eye on the village. But up here on the cliff I don't hear much of what goes on. I keep myself to myself, sir—lead a quiet life; anything out of the way puts me in a flutter at once. And when will the Fury be ready for sea?"

"In four or five days."

"To be sure! And you are Mr. Bastable's cousin! Well, now, to be sure! 'Tis early days for the smugglers, sir: they don't begin, so I've heard, much before October; their work needs dark nights; but I hope you'll put 'em down, sir, I do. They're getting the neighborhood a bad name."

"Well, Mr. Gudgeon, we'll do our best to polish it up for you. Now, d'you think those things of mine are dry? I am getting hungry, and my cousin, I hope, keeps a good table."

"To be sure, sir; a fine man, Mr. Bastable. Though I'm only a poor working farmer, and keep myself to myself, I hope I may count Mr. Bastable a friend. You will give him my respects, Mr.—?"

"Jack Hardy: that's my name. Thanks for the cider, Mr. Gudgeon: mighty good stuff. Good-by. I hope you'll be none the worse for your sousing."

"Thank you, sir. I hope not. I shall take no harm unless I get a return of the flutters."

He went with Jack to the door.

"That is your way, sir," he said, pointing to a path that ran irregularly across the fields to the right. "The coast winds a good deal here; you would not think it, but the path will bring you near to the sea. Bastable Grange is on the cliff, sir, the other side of Luscombe, a fine airy position, though too near the coast if the French should land, I say."

Jack set off at a good pace, vaulted the many stiles that crossed the field path, and in less than half an hour found himself approaching a fine old red-brick house nestling among trees at the edge of the cliff. He paused for a few moments before lifting the latch of the gate to take a look round. There, in a hollow between the two cliffs, lay the village of Luscombe, its few cottages straggling from the beach up the slope. Two or three fishing smacks lay alongside the short stone jetty: others rocked gently in the little bay. A turn of the path hid them from sight for a minute or two; when next they came into view Jack was surprised to see one of the smacks making under full sail out to sea.

"Smart work that!" he thought. "There was no sign of her putting off a few minutes ago. The Luscombe fishers would make good king's men, by the look of it; they'll have a visit from the press-gang one of these days."

He watched until the smack rounded the point; then he turned, opened the gate, walked up the gravel path, and pulled the bell at the door of Bastable Grange.

CHAPTER II

MONSIEUR DE FRONSAC

Jack was shown into a little snuggery, where he found a red-faced, blue-eyed gentleman sitting deep in a comfortable arm-chair, his legs perched on a smaller chair. His black hair was tied in a short queue; he had curly side whiskers: and he wore the full uniform of the Dorsetshire yeomanry—a tight red coat with a high stock, white buckskin breeches, and big Hessian boots that came to the knee.

"A young gentleman to see you, sir," said the servant.

"How d'ye do, Cousin Humfrey?" said Jack, advancing with a smile and outstretched hand.

"Who in the world are you?" said Mr. Bastable, clutching the arms of his chair, his eyelids squeezed together oddly.

"Oh! I'm Jack Hardy. Mother said I was to be sure and call. My traps are coming after."

"They are, are they? You're a pretty cool young spark, aren't you? I must take it, I suppose, that you're my Cousin Millicent's boy, eh?"

"Of course, Cousin Humfrey. She said you'd be glad to put me up for a day or two, if I reminded you what friends you and she were, I don't know how many years ago."

"She did, eh? Well, you'd better give an account of yourself. How old are you, and what are you doing in these parts? I don't suppose you came all the way from London to remind me of your mother."

"I'm sixteen, sir, and just appointed to the Fury—you know, the revenue cutter now repairing at Wynport. I've got a few days' leave, so I've just walked over."

"So I should suppose. Your boots look as if you'd walked through half a dozen horseponds on the way."

"Only one, cousin," replied Jack, laughing. "That was in helping a friend of yours, who tumbled over through walking backwards looking at a chimney on fire: Mr. Gudgeon, the farmer."

"A friend of mine, eh? Well, not exactly," said Mr. Bastable dryly. "So his chimney was afire."

"Yes, though I must say he took it pretty coolly; didn't seem to remember it when he got back into the house."

"Oh! You went into the house, then?"

"Yes, he gave me some cider, and drank some brandy himself for the flutters. He's not quite the shape for the flutters, cousin, is he? Looks pretty solid."

"And he made himself agreeable, eh? You told him who you were, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes! And he as good as said he was glad the Fury was getting ready for sea. Luscombe's getting a bad name for smuggling, it appears, and 'tis time some of us came along. Don't you think so, cousin?"

"Quite time, quite time!" replied Mr. Bastable. Jack fancied he caught a twinkle in his half-closed eyes. "Father and mother quite well, eh? And how long have you been a king's officer?"

"A couple of years, cousin. Of course I had to serve two years as a volunteer first; then two years ago I was put on the books of the Ariadne, second-rate frigate, Captain Bagot. Why on earth they transferred me to the Fury I can't tell—just as the Ariadne was going out to join Admiral Nelson's fleet, too. I call it disgusting."

"No doubt they thought you'd be more useful to the revenue. Well, your traps are coming after you, you said? Get off those boots and I'll introduce you to your cousins. I suppose they're your cousins, if I'm one. Ah! here's the first!"—as the door burst open, and a girl ran in. She wore a white muslin dress with a pink sash, and a chip hat was swinging on her arm. Seeing a stranger she stopped, and her cheeks flushed.

"Come, Kate," said her father, "this is your cousin, Mr. Midshipman Hardy, come to pay us a visit."

Kate Bastable made the formal little courtesy of those days, to which Jack returned his best bow.

"I came to tell you dinner is nearly ready, father," said the girl.

"Goodness alive, and I haven't got out of my regimentals yet! Run and send your mother here, Kate; she must say which room your cousin is to have. We dine earlier than you fine London folks, my lad. You're a good trencherman, I'll be bound."

"I'm pretty sharp set after my walk, cousin, and we fellows can usually do our duty with knife and fork."

"As well as in other matters, eh?—catching smugglers, for instance. Well, come along; we'll find my wife and see what she can do for you in the way of slippers."

Jack was perfectly satisfied with his dinner, and with his new-found relatives. Mrs. Bastable and he became good friends at first sight. She was a pleasant, fresh-colored woman of forty, quiet in manner and speech, but with a shrewdly humorous eye. Kate was fifteen. She said little, but took stock of her new cousin as he chattered at the dinner-table. The last member of the family was Arthur, a boy of twelve, who, Jack found afterward, was not nearly so shy as he looked. An only son, he had not been sent to school, but was tutored at home. The tutor formed the sixth at table, a slight man of about thirty, with a very swarthy skin and intensely black eyes, good features, and a glittering smile. He was introduced to Jack as Monsieur de Fronsac, a Frenchman of a noble house. He had emigrated a few years before, and settled in England as a teacher of languages and mathematics. Monsieur de Fronsac bowed and smiled when the introduction was made, and said that he was charmed and delighted to meet an officer of the king's so excellent navy.

Jack found that he was expected to do most of the talking. His cousins plied him with questions about the latest news in London. What was happening in India? Had Spain declared war? What did the people in London think of the chances of a French invasion? Jack was equal to the demands made upon him.

"Oh, as to India," he said, "a day or two before I left we got advice that that Mahratta fellow, Holkar, had invaded our territories and General Wellesley was after him. He'll soon settle his hash. And Admiral Keith is going to have a shot at those flat-bottomed boats that Boney has got at Boulogne. They'll never cross the Channel, not they. Praams they call 'em: miserable tools; a storm would knock 'em to pieces; they can't hug the wind; and the eight-pounder they've got mounted aft is a fixture, so that if we laid a small boat alongside, the gun would be useless, and they'd only have musketry to resist with. And the poor wretches on board get so seasick if there's the least swell that they lie about groaning in the hold, too weak to lift a musket. One of 'em was captured last year by a gun-brig of ours; she'd got a little leeward of Boulogne and couldn't get back, and our brig had her by the heels as she was steering large for Calais. Our fellows don't believe old Boney intends to send 'em across at all, but only wants to frighten us. By George! I wish he would, though. We'd make ducks and drakes of his praams, there's not a doubt about that."

"But they might row over in a calm," suggested Mr. Bastable; "then our cruisers would be helpless."

"Why, if they did, cousin, there'd be a chance for you. I'd like to see the yeomanry cavalry dashing at 'em as they landed, sabers out, cut and thrust, ding-dong, over you go. Oh, it won't be so easy as Master Boney imagines. Don't you think he's off his chump, cousin?—Beg pardon, Cousin Sylvia, I mean cracked; that is, mad—why, 'tis said he's had a medal struck to commemorate his invasion; his own precious head on one side and a figure of Hercules strangling the sea monster on the other. The sea monster's us, you know, Monsieur. And he's got the words 'Struck at London, 1804,' on the thing—isn't that cool cheek? Better have waited till he got to London—don't you think so, cousin?"

Thus he chattered on, amusing his relatives with his frank boyish confidence, and especially pleasing Monsieur de Fronsac, as it appeared, for the French tutor was constantly showing his teeth as he smiled.

"It is good to hear," he said once. "I like it. I do not lov dis Napoleon; truly he is a monstair."

"Makes a breakfast of babies, don't he?" said Jack.

"That's rubbish, of course," said Mr. Bastable. "But he's a monster all the same, as Monsieur says; and I warrant if he does manage to escape you blue-coated gentlemen of the navy he'll find us redcoats ready to meet him."

Monsieur de Fronsac retired immediately after dinner.

"Gone to scribble poetry," said Mr. Bastable with a smile, when the door was shut. "He's a decent fellow, and knows a heap of mathematics. I fancy he must have been crossed in love, for he's always writing poetry about the moon or the trees or the sea—so Arthur says, for he never shows his stuff to me. Now, we're early birds here, Jack. We'll play a rubber with the ladies, if you please, and then to bed."

At breakfast next morning Mr. Bastable was in particularly good humor. He had been out early, so he said; there was nothing like a ride before breakfast for freshening one up and improving one's appetite.

"By the way, Jack," he added, "when I was out I heard that the smugglers made a capital run last night—the first of the season."

"The villains!" cried Jack; "under my very nose!"

"Taking advantage of the Fury's being laid up for repairs, you see. But no doubt you'll put a stop to it when once you get to work—eh, Jack?"

Jack fancied there was something quizzical about his cousin's smile as he said this, and wondered whether the squire was "smoking" him. But he answered cheerfully:

"We'll see, cousin. I don't know what sort of man Lieutenant Blake is: only saw him for the first time yesterday; but if he's anything of a goer we'll give the smugglers a warm time, I promise them."

"And how will you set about it, cousin?"

"Don't know, for my life!" said Jack with a laugh. "But there are forty ways of catching flies, and about the same number of tying knots; and we'll find out a way, you may be sure. By the by, cousin, can you tell me how to get to the cottage of an old tar named Joe Gumley? I had a chat with him yesterday as I came here, and I'd like to look him up."

"Yes, I can tell you. He's a tenant of mine. But he won't see you."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. He won't see you. He lives by himself and never admits a visitor. He's most unpopular with the village folk, and has to tramp to Wynport to sell his garden stuff."

"Why don't they like him?"

"Ah, well! The truth is he's an oddity, a very queer fellow."

This explanation by no means satisfied Jack, and he made up his mind to visit Gumley as he had intended. The sailor's cottage stood some distance farther along the cliff. After breakfast he set off alone toward it. Within ten minutes he came to a stout wooden fence tipped with nails, and so high that he could only just see over it. Then the view of the cottage itself was hidden by a mass of bushes and trees, the foliage of which, though tinged with autumn brown, was still thick. There was a gate in the fence, but no latch and no bell.

"An 'I'm-the-king-of-the-Castle' look about this," thought Jack. He lifted his cane and dealt the gate several smart raps. Immediately he heard a dog rushing down the garden, barking angrily. Standing on tiptoe he peered over, and saw an immense bulldog, thick-set, broad-chested, with an enormous and most ugly head, showing his teeth viciously. The moment the dog caught sight of Jack he redoubled his barking and dashed forward against the fence, as if furious to get at him.

"Good dog, good dog!" said Jack soothingly. "What's the matter with you, you son of a ten-pounder? I say, Gumley—ahoy! ahoy! Gumley!"

He raised his voice to a singsong, and sent the call rolling toward the cottage, rather enjoying the din made by himself and the dog, with a hundred echoes from every dell and hollow in the cliff. In a minute or two he saw the sailor stumping round the bushes, his head bare, his shirt open at the neck, a spade in one hand, and in the other a little square board.

"Oh, 'tis you, Mr. Hardy, sir. I was digging turnips at the back. Lor', sir, all Luscombe will know you've bin here, with this terrible row and all."

"I don't care if they do, and it was your dog that made the row."

"A good dog, sir. Living alone by myself, you see, I need a watch-dog. Come in, sir, come in."

He had removed a padlock, drawn two bolts and loosed two bars on the inner side, and thrown the gate open. Jack stepped into the garden, keeping an eye on the bulldog, which had ceased to bark as soon as Gumley appeared, but walked slowly round and round the visitor, sniffing at his legs as if choosing the best place for a bite.

"There's no cause for alarm, sir—leastways not while I'm on deck. I'd best introduce you proper like, then you'll be safe any time, fair weather or foul. This here's Comely; and this is Mr. Hardy of the Fury: twiggy-voo, as the mounseers say? Now pat him, sir."

Jack felt a little uneasy, but knowing that it is best to put a bold face on it, whether with dogs or men, he stooped and patted the massive head. With an expression that seemed to him more sinister than ever, the dog stuck out a red tongue and licked his hand.

"Now all's snug and shipshape, sir. Comely's your friend for life."

"Queer name that."

"True, sir. It was like this. I had a notion of calling him Handsome, 'cos handsome is as handsome does, and he does most uncommon handsome. But thinking it over between watches, as you may say, it seemed like poking fun at the poor beast that couldn't hit back, and I cast about for a name that would mean the same but not quite so strong. I tacked about for a time without catching a fair breeze, sir. Then all at once I remembered a word in my Bible: 'black but comely.' Comely's a good name, thinks I, and his muzzle's black, and my name's Gumley, so Comely it shall be: and Comely it is, sir. We're a pair, I can tell you, Comely and Gumley."

"A capital match," said Jack laughing. "But I say, why do you barricade yourself in like that?" Gumley had replaced padlock, bolts and bars. "Any one would think you were making ready to stand a siege."

"Well, sir, I won't say 'tis to be ready for Boney's landing, and I won't say 'tisn't."

He was now stumping up the path toward the cottage, and said no more. Jack saw that he did not mean to enlighten him, and changed the subject.

"I say, Gumley, why didn't you help Mr. Gudgeon out yesterday? You went on and left me to do it."

"Ay, ay, sir. The truth is, Mr. Gudgeon and me bean't, so to say, on speaking terms."

Jack felt that there was something puzzling about all this. Gumley was not popular with the villagers, Mr. Bastable had said; the old sailor had confessed to a feud or at least a coolness between himself and his neighbor on the opposite cliff. There was an honest look about his weather-beaten face; he did not seem to Jack morose or ill-tempered. What was at the bottom of this strange attitude of antagonism, shown by the man's somewhat elaborate defenses? Well, after all, it did not matter to Jack; his leave would be up in a few days, and then his duty would take him to sea.

He sat for some time in Gumley's trim little parlor, where everything bespoke the handy Jack Tar, chatting about sea life in general and the Ariadne in particular. Then the talk came round to Jack's new vessel, the Fury, and brought up the question of smuggling.

"Mr. Gudgeon said that a good deal goes on about here," said Jack, "and by George! my cousin, Mr. Bastable, told me that the villains ran a cargo ashore only last night. I suppose he met the riding-officer as he went for his morning canter. Did you hear anything of it?"

"Not a word, sir. I keep myself to myself."

"Yes, Mr. Gudgeon said much the same thing, I remember. But I suppose you hear talk in the village sometimes?"

"Never bin into the village since I gave up fishing, sir. I get all my victuals from Wynport, and often don't set eyes on the village folk from week-end to week-end, except at Church at Wickham Ferrers on Sunday."

"Why you're quite a hermit—almost as bad as Congleton."

"True, sir, but I've never bin crossed in love, 'cos I never seed a maid I fancied afore I lost my leg, and there's ne'er a maid would take a fancy to a poor chap with a stump like this. And I'm afeard of going like Congleton, sir."

"Yes, but, Gumley, never mind about that. Tell me straight out, man; are the people in Luscombe below there smugglers or not—the whole crew of 'em, I mean?"

"Well, since you put it plain, sir, I wouldn't be surprised if some of 'em think a sight more of French brandy than of Jamaica rum."

"That's no answer, you old rascal. Well, I'm going down to the village to have a look round. I saw some neat little smacks at the jetty yesterday, and one of 'em put out pretty smartly, too: was uncommonly well handled."

"Well, sir, you be a fine, mettlesome young gentleman; but if so be as I might advise you, I'd say keep your weather-eye open. If so be they are a smuggling lot below—well, they won't be exactly main pleased to see a king's officer."

"Bless you, they won't know me. I'm not in uniform, you see. Nobody knows who I am but my cousins and you and Mr. Gudgeon."

"True, sir; and me and Mr. Gudgeon keeps ourselves to ourselves, to be sure."

CHAPTER III

A FIGHT IN LUSCOMBE MARKET

Jack was accompanied to the gate in quite a friendly way by Comely. He smiled as he heard the click of the lock and bolts behind him, and thought a good deal about Joe Gumley as he made his way down the steep cliff path to the fishing village below. It was quite a small village: a few cottages clustered about a cobbled square, with others climbing the cliff, each with its little bit of garden.

The harbor was protected by a natural breakwater of rock running out to sea, and forming an excellent defense against the southwest gales. A few brawny fishermen were lounging about in jerseys and sou'westers, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth. Jack tried to enter into conversation with them, but found them strangely taciturn. They looked hard at him before answering his questions, used few words, and gave him very little information. Mr. Bastable laughed when, meeting Jack at luncheon, he learned how he had spent the morning.

"They're not a talkative set," he said, "and were probably somewhat overcome by the presence of a king's officer."

"But how did they know I'm a king's officer, cousin? We fellows don't go blabbing about: I didn't tell 'em, and only Gumley and old Gudgeon know, besides you and my cousins."

"Perhaps it was Kate that told them. Ladies are great gossips, they say."

"I'm sure Kate doesn't go gossiping with fishermen; do you, Kate?"

"Indeed, no," said Kate, "'tis a shame to say so, father."

"I didn't say so, now did I, Jack? I said 'perhaps.' You don't suppose I went and boasted of having a king's officer as my guest, Mr. Midshipman Hardy; and Mr. Gudgeon and Gumley keep themselves to themselves, as they told you, my boy."

"Well, I can't make it out, and it doesn't matter."

"Probably they won't know you again in your uniform, Jack."

"Do you wear a dirk, cousin, and a belt with pistols in it?" asked Arthur eagerly.

"You may be sure he does," said Mr. Bastable; "looks a regular bucaneer, I've no doubt. You'll give old Gudgeon the flutters if he sees you in all your war-paint, Jack."

"Oh, come now, cousin!" protested Jack. "Our fellows don't look half so fierce as you yeomen. Boney will be terrified if he catches sight of your big hats and red coats."

"De uniform of de yeomen is ver' fine," said Monsieur de Fronsac, smiling. "It is quite beautiful. Dat is vat I say to Monsieur Arthur; dat de Monstair Bonaparte vill tr-r-emble ven he see de brave English yeomen."

Jack was interested in Monsieur de Fronsac. He had never met a Frenchman before, and he studied him as he might have studied a strange animal. After lunch he spent some time with the tutor, and learned something of his history. It appeared that on leaving France, a few years before, he had gone to live on his estates in Martinique, hoping there to escape the dangers to which, as a royalist, he would be exposed at home. But on the advent of Napoleon Bonaparte to power his property had been confiscated by the Bonapartist governor. He himself had been proscribed; he fled to Jamaica, thence to London. It was hard for poor émigrés to pick up a living. Happening to hear that a school in Wynport required a teacher of mathematics he had come down from London, only to find that the place had been filled. But luckily Mr. Bastable was at the time in search of a tutor for his son. De Fronsac heard of it from the master of Wynport school: he applied and was accepted.

"But I hope vun day to get back my estates, ven dat Monstair, dat impertinent from Corsica, lose his life, or ven he shall be reject from de throne he goes so impudent to seize."

Jack became a little tired of Monsieur de Fronsac's references to the Monstair. He never spoke of Bonaparte without tacking on the epithet. Of course, he had good reason for hating the First Consul if he had lost all his property and been compelled to teach for a living; but it was not the English way to call names—and always the same name. Jack set it down as one of the peculiarities of Frenchmen.

That evening, after dinner, the conversation once more came back to the subject which was then discussed more often than any other among the good people of the south coast—the expected landing of the French. Mr. Bastable was inclined to think that with so long a coast-line open to him, and so many possible landing-places, Bonaparte would only have to choose his time carefully to be able, with any kind of luck, to make his descent. But Jack scoffed at the idea.

"What about Nelson, and Collingwood, and Keith, cousin? They'd smash him before he got half-way across."

"But Nelson is away in the Mediterranean, isn't he? He can't be everywhere at once, Jack."

"And every one can't be a Nelson, but we can do our best."

"I wonder where Boney would think of landing. Somewhere west, not Pevensey like the Conqueror: too near London. The Conqueror sailed from Boulogne, didn't he?"

"Don't think so, cousin: Boulogne isn't in Normandy."

"Still, I'm pretty sure it was Boulogne. Monsieur will know. We'll ask him."

"I'll go and find him; hope I shan't interrupt his flow of poetry."

Jack hurried off, and learned that the tutor had gone out some little time before.

"He said he were gwine fur a promenade," said the servant whom Jack asked.

"Which way did he go?"

"Down along by Congleton's Hollow, sir."

"Well, I'll go after him. Tell your master I'll be back soon."

A footpath over the fields led to Congleton's Hollow, about a mile and a half from the Grange. Jack had visited the spot in the afternoon with his cousin Arthur. They had climbed over the half-ruined wall, and wandered about in the dense plantation. Under the trees it was quite dim, even in daylight; and where there were no large trees the ground was thickly covered with a tangle of bushes and ferns. Blackberries and nuts grew in abundance, and the boys had gathered them by handfuls, regardless of scratches, or rents in their clothes. Rabbits scurried across the path from patches of tall brake; squirrels blinked out of the foliage. The place had a wild beauty of its own—the romantic charm of a spot seldom visited by men.

Delightful as it had been in the afternoon sunlight, it seemed to Jack more delightful still in the dusk of this beautiful September evening. The moon was just rising, throwing pale shafts of light through the trees, deepening the shadows. An owl hooted from the top of the Folly; as Jack picked his way through the brake he heard the whisk of scared rabbits. By the time he reached a part of the ruined wall whence he could look over a stretch of open country he had almost forgotten his errand. He sat on the wall, dangling his legs. There, across the fields to his right, the moonbeams shone on the weathercock on Gudgeon's roof. Luscombe was out of sight in the dip of the cliffs, but he fancied he could hear the grinding of the surf on the shingle.

Suddenly he started. The light southeast breeze blowing toward him brought the sound of low voices a little way ahead. Was it Monsieur de Fronsac speaking? Jack thought he recognized the low smooth tones. Should he go on? That would be to risk overhearing the speakers. He hesitated; he heard another voice, deeper, rougher; then both voices together, as if in altercation.

"This won't do!" thought Jack. "I'd better clear out." So he sprang lightly down from his perch and began to retrace his steps, walking slowly as he had come, and looking back every now and again to see whether the tutor was following. At last, just as he reached the first of half a dozen stiles between himself and the Grange, he saw Monsieur de Fronsac's figure come into the moonlight from the shade of the trees half a mile behind. He was alone. Jack sat on the stile and waited.

The Frenchman walked with downcast eyes and for a few moments did not perceive him. Catching sight of him at length, he seemed to be startled, for he halted and made a strange upward movement of the right hand. But his pause was only momentary. He came on again, and as soon as he was near enough to see clearly who was sitting on the stile, he showed his teeth in a brilliant smile, and called softly:

"Hi! Monsieur Jack, I see you."

"Well, I'm pretty solid, Monsieur," returned Jack with a smile. "The place looks lonely enough for a ghost, don't it? I'd come to meet you; got a question to ask."

"Ah! truly de place is romanesque. It demand poesy. Often do I come here, in evenings ven de moon is bright, to compose poesy. It please me, it console me in my miseries. I come dis minute from composing a poem about de moon. Vill I declaim it? Is Monsieur interested?"

"Oh, fire away!" said Jack. He thought he might as well humor this singular Frenchman. "Stop a bit, is it in French or English? If it's in French it'll be clean over my head."

"No, it is in English. I compose alvays in English since dat Monstair have maltreat me. I recite it: listen:

"'De moon, she shine in de sky

O lovely! O sharming!

Ven I look, vat can I? I sigh.

Vat fine zing for farming!'

"I explain dat: Your so difficult language have not good rhymes: and dere needs one for 'sharming.' I recollect myself to have seen de farmers making hay by de moonlight. Dat also vas sharming sight, so I put him in my verse."

"First-rate," said Jack. "Go on; I like that bit."

"I have no more complete at present. It take so much to seek your English rhymes. Now in my language—"

And Monsieur de Fronsac began a long course on French poetry, keeping up a steady flow of talk which lasted till they reached the Grange. Not till they were entering the drawing-room together did Jack remember the question he had gone to ask.

"Well, Jack, I'm right, eh?" called Mr. Bastable.

"'Pon my life, cousin, I forgot to ask. Monsieur has been entertaining me with poetry and things, and drove the question clean out of my head. Where did William the Conqueror sail from, Monsieur?"

"I do not know, I regret to say."

Mr. Bastable laughed.

"Well, we're none the wiser. Come, Jack, take a hand at cards. We've been waiting this half-hour."

When Jack was alone in his bedroom, and thought of his meeting with De Fronsac, he felt vaguely uneasy. Why had the tutor been so anxious to explain his walk? Why had he talked on and on so glibly about such a dull subject as French poetry, with the evident desire to prevent Jack from talking? Why had he made no reference to his companion in the Hollow? His friends, his private business, were, of course, no concern of Jack's; but the position of De Fronsac in the Bastable household scarcely seemed consistent with stealthy meetings in retired spots, and Jack, without knowing why, did not like it. But he slept none the less soundly, and had almost forgotten it by the morning.

The third day of his visit Jack had pretty much to himself. The ladies drove early into Wynport to see a dressmaker, and would not return till late; Arthur was engaged with his tutor; and Mr. Bastable had to go to the county town on yeomanry business. Jack spent part of the day in roaming about the cliffs, and in the afternoon went down to the shore, to bathe and watch the fishing-boats go out. Dinner had been put back an hour, so that he delayed his return to the Grange somewhat later than usual.

As he made his way up the hill, turning off through a narrow lane to the left, he tripped over a cord that had suddenly been drawn tight in front of him. There had been rain during the morning, and the place had been carefully chosen by the practical jokers, who betrayed their presence by a subdued chuckle from an alley-way on Jack's right as he fell head forward into a pool of mud.

Jack had served an apprenticeship in the art of practical joking in the Ariadne. Not for nothing had he been for two years a "youngster" in a midshipman's mess. He knew that the best way to discourage the gentle sport in others was to take summary vengeance on the joker—if he could get at him. He picked himself up in a trice, dashed into the alley-way—so narrow that there was scarcely room for more than one to pass at a time—and saw before him the back of a hulking form disappearing into the dusk, and hiding, as Jack judged from the clumping of heavy boots, a number of his fellow conspirators in front.

The fugitive was tall, but his clumsy body seemed too heavy for his short legs, and he moved slowly. Jack was upon him just as he emerged from the narrow alley into the open square of the village. Catching sight, with the readiness of one accustomed to use his eyes, of a convenient muck-heap—there were always convenient muck-heaps in town or country a hundred years ago, when sanitary inspection was still undreamed of—Jack neatly tripped the burly figure into its soft and odorous embrace. There was a great yell from the other fugitives, who stopped their flight when they found that they were not in immediate danger; and as they closed in toward the spluttering victim, now slowly raising himself, Jack saw that they were some of the boys and youths of the village, whose eyes he had often noticed upon him as he passed through. And there was something strangely familiar in the attitude of the hobbledehoy struggling clumsily to his feet. He was not a fisher lad; where had Jack seen him before? The cries of the crowd enlightened him.

"Fight un, Bill Gudgeon!"

"Heave un into midden, Billy."

"Black his eyes!"

"Give un a nobbier!"

But Bill Gudgeon, like his father, was inclined to keep himself to himself.

"Not if I knows it," he said slowly, as he sheered off. "Maister and me be quits now."

"Chok' it all!" cried one of his companions, a sturdily built, black-browed, bullet-headed fisher youth of some eighteen years. "If so be you woan't fight, Billy Gudgeon, I will, so there then. Be you afeard, maister?"

"No, I don't think I'm afraid of you," said Jack, "but I don't see what we've got to fight about. As your friend yonder said, we're quits. And I'm in a hurry. Good night."

"Boo! boo!" yelled the rest, encouraged by this seeming display of the white feather. "Rare plucked un to fight Boney! Afeard of Jan Lamiger! Boo! boo!"

Jan Lamiger slouched forward as Jack was turning away, and as an earnest of battle cleverly flicked off his hat. Jack was round in an instant.

"Very well, Jan, or whatever your name is, if you're set on fighting, I suppose I must oblige you."

He took off his coat, folded it, and placed it carefully on a stone pillar hard by: then he picked up his hat, set it on top, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. The young fisherman meanwhile divested himself of his jersey, and listened with a smug smile to the encouraging hints and practical instructions of his mates.

Jack felt a trifle bored. It was much beneath his dignity as a midshipman of his Majesty King George to be fighting fisher lads in the open fish-market of Luscombe, but it would have been still more beneath his dignity to refuse the challenge and have the pack of fisher lads at his heels. He was relieved to find that the Square was quite deserted save for the group about him. A few seconds earlier he had had an impression that there were a number of fisher folk about. The people had, in fact, hastily retired into their cottages when they saw what was afoot. They had no objection to the lad's trouncing a king's officer, but when that officer happened to be a relative of Squire Bastable at the Grange it was perhaps just as well not to countenance the fight openly. For they had no doubt that Jan Lamiger would win. He stood half a head higher than the midshipman, and was probably three stone heavier. And, moreover, he had some little reputation in the neighborhood as a boxer and wrestler. Had he not thrown all comers at Wickham Fair? And knocked Tom Buggins, the light-weight, clean out of time at Casterbridge only last month?

It was a somewhat rough battle-ground; the cobbles of the Square would make a hard fall; but neither of the combatants had chosen the spot, nor did it occur to them to seek a more convenient place for their encounter.

Those were the days in which skill in the use of the fists was a real title to consideration among all classes, high and low. And fortunately for Jack, it was an art cultivated with great perseverance by the young gentlemen of H.M.S. Ariadne. A new midshipman had to fight his way into the right to call anything his own. So frequent were the battles on board, that the art had reached a very high degree of perfection. Even the muscular heroes of the prize-ring might have envied the quickness of eye, the wariness, the nimbleness of movement, the skill in feint, of these young warriors.

The group had become by this time enlarged by the addition of several other boys, big and small, eager to see the fight and the imminent discomfiture of the king's officer. They drew away to give the principals fighting room. The two at once got to work. In the first half-minute Jack found that he had no novice to deal with, and that in sheer physical strength he was hopelessly outmatched. But the big lumbering fisher had nothing like the quickness of wit or the science of the slighter midshipman. Hitherto he had won his bouts by staying power added to a certain rudimentary knowledge of fisticuffs that might pass for skill among the yokels at a country fair. But in all his previous battles he had never met an opponent who forced the pace like this one. Where was he? He seemed to be on all sides at once. Jan dealt what he firmly believed was a staggering right-hander, only to hit air and to feel a smart tap on the left side of his chin. He flung out his left hand, and before he knew what was happening, he felt a similar tap on the right side. This kept things even, but it spoilt Jan's temper. He forgot his science in his irritation, and lurched forward to give full effect to his weight and height. The result was disastrous. Where did that whack in the left eye come from? He had hardly realized that he could not see quite so well as usual, when something very hard and knobby came into his right eye, and while the stars were still dancing before him a neat left-hander from Jack sent him reeling back on to the cobblestones, where he sat up and peered about him dazedly.

It was clear that the battle was over in a single round. There was no fight left in Jan. The crowd was silent now. Several were assisting Jan to rise, and Jack quickly rolled down his sleeves, put on his hat and coat, and walked away, leaving the Square by the alley through which he had entered it. Perfect stillness reigned in the village; but Jack was conscious that the windows and doorways were now filled with faces watching the scene. He smiled as he left the village behind him.

CHAPTER IV

CONGLETON'S HOLLOW

Jack was beginning to enjoy himself. There is something bracing in antagonism: the knowledge that he was regarded as an enemy by the people of Luscombe, so far from daunting him, whetted his appetite for duty. He made up his mind to say nothing to Mr. Bastable of what had occurred.

When he got back to the Grange he found the household bubbling with an excitement of its own. Mr. Bastable had brought back with him two new suits of yeomanry uniform, and Tony, the coachman, and Andrew, the groom, had just fitted them on and were displaying their finery to the admiring eyes of Molly, the cook, and Betty, the housemaid. The men grinned sheepishly as Jack passed them.

"Bean't they fine, Measter Jack?" said Molly, giggling.

"Splendid! You won't be afraid of Boney now."

"Sakes alive, no, sir! But I be mortal afeard o' William's blunderbuss. It do look a terrible deathly instrument, to be sure; and what would happen to us if it went off by accident goodness only knows."

William was the gardener, who, though too old and bent to make an efficient yeoman, had been armed, like Overcombe, the butler, with a blunderbuss, Mr. Bastable having thought it worth while to give the men of his household weapons of defense.

"You never know," he said to Jack; "Boney may land or he may not; if he lands, the more men we have to fight him, the better; and a blunderbuss behind a wall may do some damage. I'm going to exercise 'em every day."

"And what about Monsieur de Fronsac, cousin? Will you arm him, too?"

"Well, I didn't intend to. I thought I could hardly expect him to fight against his own countrymen. But he is so bitter against the Monster that he declares he won't remain neutral. While his countrymen lick the feet of the Monster, he says, he disowns 'em. He's got a pistol, and uncommon handy he is with it, too. There he is," he added, as a loud report was heard; "he's practising behind the coach-house. Let us go and see what he can do."

De Fronsac smiled when he saw them.

"You see, Messieurs, I exercise myself," he said. As he spoke he stooped and lifted a horn button from the ground. Walking up to the wall he placed the button edgewise against a brick; turned, stepped a dozen paces, swung round, and almost without seeming to take aim, fired. The button was shattered into small fragments.

Jack could not but envy the Frenchman's skill.

"You must have had plenty of practice, Monsieur," he said.

"Yes, truly. Ve of the noblesse know to use de pistol, assuredly."

Next day there was to be a yeomanry parade at Wickham Ferrers. Arthur begged off his lessons for the day, wishing to go with Jack to see the training. There were no horses for them to ride or drive, Mr. Bastable's three being required to mount himself and his men, so they had to walk. It was only six miles; they started early, and were on the field before the troops arrived. They got a good deal of amusement out of the scene. Many of the yeomen were raw recruits who found the management of horses and arms at the same time somewhat beyond them. Falls were frequent, and the officers got very red in the face with the exertion of commanding and countermanding. When the parade was over, the two boys had early dinner with Mr. Bastable and the other officers at the Wickham Arms, and started to walk back in the cool of the evening.

They came by a path that led past the tower once inhabited by the melancholy Congleton. Jack looked up at it, wondering what sort of place that lonely room at the top was. But Arthur said that the only doorway was strongly barricaded, and Jack was not inclined to waste time in breaking in. Another half-mile brought them to the middle of the Hollow. Jack had not mentioned the incident of two nights before; it would seem too much like prying into De Fronsac's affairs; but he was thinking of it when a shot rang out from the depths of the copse, followed by a cry. Arthur paused in the act of capturing a belated butterfly.

"What's that, Jack?"

"A cry for help! Come on!"

He vaulted the wall; after a moment's hesitation Arthur scrambled over; and they dashed toward the thickest part of the wood, Jack a few yards ahead. Heedless of scratches and tears they pushed through the tangle in the direction of the sounds, and, Jack suddenly finding himself blocked by a thick clump of brambles, Arthur came panting up to him.

"Over there, Jack, I think!" he said. "I heard some one moving."

He pointed to the left. They listened; there was no sound but the ripple of a tiny stream.

"Let's go on!" said Jack in a whisper, pointing ahead. "'Twas there the sound first came from."

He disentangled himself from the bush, not without damage to hands and clothes, and skirting the obstacle, the two pushed still deeper into the wood, dim in spite of the glow of the westering sun. In a few moments they saw through the trees a more brightly-lit patch of ground, and came to an open glade, covered with fern and tall grass run to seed. At the far side stood the ruins of a large timber summer-house, built of logs something like those of the pioneers in America of which Jack had read. It was somewhat dilapidated. But what took his attention immediately was the figure of a man sitting on one of the fallen logs, apparently stanching with a red handkerchief a wound in the head.

As the two boys made their appearance at the edge of the glade the man started and tried to rise; but he staggered back with a groan, and continuing clumsily to stanch his wound, eyed them sullenly with uneasy suspicion as they approached.

Jack went up to him impulsively.

"We heard a shot and a cry. Did you call out?" he asked. "You are hurt. Can we do anything?"

The man was an undersized, mean-featured, ill-conditioned looking fellow. He had a low beetling brow, and his cheeks were black with the unshorn growth of several weeks. He was evidently badly hurt, and, villainous though he looked, Jack was eager to aid him.

"It is nothing," said the man, in a low and surly tone, with a slight foreign accent. "I am getting better, if only the bleeding would stop!"

Jack could see the handkerchief was drenched with blood.

"You were shot! Who fired?" he asked.

"Ah, who? I want to know. It was all at once. I did not see."

"And how did it happen, then?"

"Why, I walk along, looking straight in front, when behind me a shot is fired. I feel the pain. I call out; the pain indeed is no little; see, the bullet cut my scalp three inches long, at least. A little lower, and without doubt I am a dead man."

"And you did not see who fired?"

"No, how can I? I turn round; but the villain hears you as you come, and he escapes. That way I hear him go."

He pointed in the direction suggested by Arthur.

"It was some robber, without doubt," he added.

Jack looked uneasily around. Where was the man? Perhaps still in the copse ready to repeat his shot. But with another glance at the victim Jack felt that there was something strange in his story. Who would rob an ill-clad, dirty-looking fellow like this? He did not appear worth the pains. And what had brought him to the Hollow? He was certainly a foreigner; the copse was off the highway; what was he doing there?

From beneath his black shaggy brows the man was keenly watching. Apparently he saw by Jack's expression that doubts were crossing his mind. Still dabbing his head he began to speak again.

"I am unlucky. I am of Spitalfields, a silk weaver. At Wickham Ferrers I have at the inn fine silks. I visit the nobility and gentry; they give me orders. I am on my way to the house of Mr. Bastable—the squire, people call him. He is rich; his lady will buy my silks."

"But this is not the way to Mr. Bastable's."

"Is it not? They told me there was a short cut through the wood. Ah! the villains! It is a trap. They had me here to shoot me. Yes, that is it."

"And your samples?"

The man started.

"Yes, my samples," he said hurriedly, looking round. "They steal them. But I have others at Wickham Ferrers, at the inn. I go for them at once."