Cutlass and Cudgel | Page 6

he said firmly, as he drew himself up and tried to look stern and tall and big, an impossibility with a man of five feet two inches in height, and whose physique had always been against his advance in the profession. For as a short energetic little man he might have gained promotion; as a little fat rosy fellow the Lords of the Admiralty thought not; and so, after endless disappointments regarding better things, he had been appointed commander of the little White Hawk, and sent to cruise off the south coast and about the Channel, to catch the smugglers who were always too clever to be caught.
"No," he said shortly, as he drew himself up; "won't do, Raystoke, though you and I are condemned to live in this miserable little cutter, and on a contemptible kind of duty, we must not forget that we are officers and gentlemen in His Majesty's service. Milking cows won't do. No; we must draw the line at milking cows. But I should have liked a drop for my breakfast."
"Ahoy!" cried one of the men loudly.
"Ahoy yourself!" cried a voice from off the sea on the shore side, and all turned to see a boat approaching rowed by a rough-looking fisherman, and with a lad of about sixteen sitting astern, who now rose up to answer the man who shouted.
"Where did he come from?" said the lieutenant. "Anybody see him put off?"
"No, sir! No, sir!" came from all directions; and the lieutenant raised his glass to sweep the coast.
"What do you want?" cried the man at the side as the boat came on, and the lieutenant bade the man ask.
"Want?" shouted the lad, a sturdy-looking fellow with keen grey eyes and fair close curly hair all about his sunburned forehead. "I've come after our cow!"
CHAPTER THREE.
"How do, Sir Risdon?"
The speaker was a curious-looking man of fifty, rough, sunburned, and evidently as keen as a well-worn knife. He was dressed like a farmer who had taken to fishing or like a fisherman who had taken to farming, and his nautical appearance seemed strange to a man who was leading a very meditative grey horse attached to a heavy cart, made more weighty by the greatcoat of caked mud the vehicle wore.
He had been leading the horse along what was called in Freestone a road, though its only pretensions to being a road was that it led from Shackle's farm to the fields which bordered the cliff, and consisted of two deep channels made by the farm tumbril wheels, and a shallow track formed by horses' hoofs, the said channels being more often full of water than of mud, and boasting the quality of never even in the hottest weather being dry.
The person Blenheim Shackle--farmer and fisher, in his canvas sailor's breeches, big boots, striped shirt, and red tassel cap--had accosted, was a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking gentleman, in a broad-skirted, shabby brown velvet coat, who was daintily picking his way, cane in hand, over the soft turf of the field, evidently deep in thought, but sufficiently awake to what was around to make him stoop from time to time to pick up a glistening white-topped mushroom, and transfer it to one of his pockets with a satisfied smile.
"Ah, Master Shackle," he said, starting slightly on being addressed. "Well, thank you. A lovely morning, indeed."
"Ay, the morning's right enough, Sir Risdon. Picking a few mushrooms, sir?"
"I--er--yes, Master Shackle. I have picked a few," said the tall thin gentleman, colouring slightly. "I--beg your pardon, Master Shackle, for doing so. I ought to have asked your leave."
"Bah! Not a bit," said the fisher-farmer, with a chuckle. "You're welcome, squire."
"I thank you, Master Shackle--I thank you warmly. You see her ladyship is very fond of the taste of a fresh gathered mushroom, and if I see a few I like to take them to the Hoze."
"Ay, to be sure," said Shackle, as he thought to himself "And precious glad to get them, you two poor half-starved creatures, with your show and sham, and titles and keep up appearances."
"I--er--I have not got many, Master Shackle. Would you like to see?" continued the tall thin gentleman, raising the flap of one of his salt-box pockets.
"I don't want to see," growled the other, as he stood patting the neck of his old grey horse. "Been to the cliff edge?"
"I--yes, Master Shackle."
"See the cutter?"
"I think I saw a small vessel lying some distance off, with white sails."
"That's the White Hawk, Luff Brough. And I wanted to speak to you, Sir Risdon."
The gentleman started.
"Not about--about that--" he stammered.
"Tchah! Yes. It was about that, man," said the other. "Don't shy at it like a horse at a blue bogey in a windy lane."
"But I told you, man, last time, that I would have no more to