was a study in the comic line as he shook his head.

"Yes you were, sir, and it was wicked smuggling. I order you to tell me
directly. Are they coming up to-night?"

"Mustn't tell," said the boy slowly.

"Then they are," cried the girl, with her handsome young face puckering
up with the trouble which oppressed her, and after standing looking
thoughtful and anxious for a few moments, she went away toward the front
of the house, while Ram went round to the side and delivered his basket.

"Course we are," he said to himself, as he went down the hill again.
"But I warn't going to blab. What a fuss people do make about a bit o'
smuggling! How pretty she looks!" and he stopped short to admire her--
the _she_ being the _White Hawk_, which lay motionless on the calm sea.
"Wish I could sail aboard a boat like that, and be dressed like that
young chap with his sword. I would like to wear a sword. I told father
so, and he said I was a fool."

He threw himself down on the short turf, which was dotted with black and
grey, as the rooks, jackdaws, and gulls marched about feeding together
in the most friendly way, where the tiny striped snails hung upon the
strands of grass by millions.

"It'll be a fog again to-night," he said thoughtfully, "and she's sure
to come. Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed, as he made a derisive gesture towards
the cutter; "watch away. You may wear your gold lace and cocked hats
and swords, but you won't catch us, my lads; we're too sharp for that."

CHAPTER FIVE.

Shackle was quite right; the fog did begin to gather over the sea soon
after sundown, and the depressing weather seemed to have a curious
effect on Farmer Shackle, who kept getting up from his supper to go and
look out through the open door, and come back smiling and rubbing his
hands.

Mrs Shackle was very quiet and grave-looking and silent for a time, but
at last she ventured a question.

"Did you see her at sundown?"

"Ay, my lass. 'Bout eight mile out."

"But the cutter?"

"Well, what about the cutter?"

"Will it be safe?"

"Safe? Tchah! I know what I'm 'bout."

That being so, Mrs Shackle made no remark, but went on cutting chunks
of bread and butter for her son, to which the boy added pieces of cold
salt pork, and then turned himself into a mill which went on slowly
grinding up material for the making of a man, this raw material being
duly manipulated by nature, and apportioned by her for the future making
of the huma