Cutlass and Cudgel | Page 6

big strong hands accustomed to
handle capstan-bars and haul ropes, the cow gave a more vigorous
kick than ever; away flew the bucket, and over went Dick on his back.
He sprung up angrily now in the midst of the laughter, and touched his
forehead to his commanding officer.
"It arn't no good, sir; she's a beef cow, and not a milker."
"You don't know your business, my lad," said the lieutenant.
"But she's such a savage one, sir. Don't go anigh her, sir."
"Nonsense!" said the lieutenant, going up to the cow, patting her and
handling her ears and horns; to all of which attentions the animal
submitted calmly enough, blinking her eyes, and gently swinging her
tail.
"I think I could milk her, sir," said Archy.
"Think so, Raystoke?" said the lieutenant. "I was just thinking I should
have liked some new milk."
"So was I, sir. Shall I try?"
"Yes," said the lieutenant. "I believe I could do it myself. It always
looks so easy. But no; won't do," 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