Farmer Shackle went home, and was saluted by the question--

"Found my Tally?"

"Yes, wife."

"Drowned?"

"No; all right."

That was sufficient for Mrs Shackle, who had some butter to make.

Meanwhile the boat containing Archy Raystoke and Gurr the master, with
her crew, was rowed steadily along under the cliffs, the deep water
being close up. It was a hot day and hard work, but the men pulled away
cheerfully, for a run ashore was a change.

The opening into the cove was reached, and the boat run ashore, and one
man being left as keeper, the little well-armed party of a dozen men
were marched off along the narrow road toward the Hoze.

Archy was in the highest of spirits, and meant to search everywhere in
the neighbourhood of the ledge, so as to cover himself with glory in the
eyes of his superior officer. Old Gurr the master, who had been turned
over to the cutter for two reasons, that he was a good officer and a man
with a bad temper, found no pleasure in the walk whatever.

Now he grumbled about his corns, and said he never saw such a road;
worse than an old sea beach. Then he limped with the pain of an old
wound; and lastly, he forgot all about his troubles in the solace he
found in a huge quid of tobacco, with whose juice he plentifully
besprinkled the leaves of the brambles that were spread on either side.

The men tramped on, exciting the interest of the people of the little
villages that were passed--clusters of white rough stone houses by the
roadside, whose occupants looked innocence itself, but there was hardly
one among them who could not have told tales about busy work on dark
nights, carrying kegs and bales, or packages of tobacco from the cliff,
to some hiding-place in barn or cave.

Old Gurr knew that, and he winked solemnly at the young midshipman.

"Nice chickens, Mr Raystoke," he said.

"Where, Gurr?" cried Archy, who was growing fast, and wanted material to
help nature. "Let's get some eggs to take back."

"Eggs!" grumbled the weather-beaten officer; "I didn't mean fowls, I
meant people."

"Oh!"

"Eggs, indeed! Their eggs is kegs o' brandy. Right Nantes; Hollands
gin. I know them. They're all in the game. Keep on, my lads. Step
together like the sogers do. This here road's not the cutter's deck."

The last order was not needed, for the men marched on cheerfully and
well, till they had passed on the inner side of the high cliff where Ram
had displayed his lanthorns, an