Part 14 (1/2)

”Ay, ay, sir!”

”What is it?”

”Casks!”

”What did I promise you?” Mr. Smellie turned to Captain Arbuthnot in triumph. ”Luxmore!” he called aloud.

”Ay, ay, sir!” came the Chief Boatman's voice in answer.

”There's a plank handy. Roll us a sample or two ash.o.r.e here, and fetch along chisel and auger.”

”If you think it necessary, sir--”

”Do as you're told, man! . . . Ah, here we are!”--as a couple of preventive men splashed ash.o.r.e, trundling a cask along the plank between them, and up-ended it close by the water's edge.

Captain Arbuthnot had dismounted and, advancing with his arm through his charger's bridle, bent over the cask.

”Devilish queer-smelling brandy!” he observed, drawing back a pace and sniffing.

”It has been standing in the bilge. These fellows never clean out their boats from one year's end to another,” said Mr. Smellie, positively. Yet he, too, eyed the cask with momentary suspicion.

In shape, in colour, it resembled the tubs in which Guernsey ordinarily exported its _eau-de-vie_. It was slung, too, ready for carriage, and with French left-handed rope, and yet. . . . It seemed unusually large for a Guernsey tub . . . and unusually light in scantling. . . .

”Shall I spile en, maister?” asked one of the preventive men, producing a large auger.

”No, stave its head in. And fetch a pannikin, somebody. There's good water at the beach-head; and I dare say your men, Captain, won't despise a tot of French liquor after their ride.”

The preventive man set his chisel against the inner rim of the cask, and dealt it a short sharp blow with his hammer, a sort of trial tap, to guide his aim. ”French liquor?” He sniffed. ”Furrin fruit, more like. Phew! Keep back there, and stand by for lavender!”

Cras.h.!.+ . . .

”Pf--f!”

”Ar-r-r-ugh! Oh, merciful Heaven!” Captain Arbuthnot staggered back, clapping thumb and forefinger to his nose.

”PILCHARDS!”

”SALT PILCHARDS!”

”ROTTEN PILCHARDS!”

Mr. Smellie opened his mouth, but collapsed in a fit of retching, as from right and left, and from the darkness all around him, a roar of Homeric laughter woke the echoes of the Cove. Men rolled about laughing. Men leaned against one another to laugh.

Already the preventive men on board the luggers--having been rash enough to prise open some half a dozen casks--had dropped overboard and were wading ash.o.r.e, coughing and spitting as they came. Amid the uproar Major Hymen kept a perfectly grave face.

”You see, sir,” he explained to Captain Arbuthnot, ”Mr. Smellie is fond of hunting where there is no fox. So some of my youngsters. .h.i.t on the idea of providing him with a drag. They have spent a week at least in painting these casks to look like the real thing. . . . I am sorry, sir, that you and your gallant fellows should have been misled by an officious civilian; but if I might suggest your marching on to Looe, where a good supper awaits us, to take this taste out of our mouths--and good liquor too, not contraband, to drown resentment--”

The Captain may surely be pardoned if for the moment even this gentle speech failed to placate him. He turned in dudgeon amid the grinning crowd and was in the act of remounting, but missed the stirrup as his charger reared and backed before the noise of yet another diversion.

No one knows who dipped into the cask and flung the first handful over unhappy Mr. Smellie. No one knows who led the charge down upon the boats, or gave the cry to stave in the barrels on board. But in a trice the preventive men were driven overboard and, as they leapt into the shallow water, were caught and held and drenched in the noisome mess; while the Riding Officer, plastered ere he could gain his saddle, ducked his head and galloped up the beach under a torrential shower of deliquescent pilchards.

The Dragoons did not interfere.