muggler's work."

Scudamore hoped that he might be right, and for some little time was not
disturbed by any appearance to the contrary. But early in the afternoon
one day, when the month of March was near its close, he left his books
for a little fresh air, and strolled into the orchard, where his friend
the ox was dwelling. This worthy animal, endowed with a virtue denied to
none except the human race, approached him lovingly, and begged to draw
attention to the gratifying difference betwixt wounds and scars. He
offered his broad brow to the hand, and his charitable ears to be
tickled, and breathed a quick issue of good feeling and fine feeding,
from the sensitive tucks of his nostrils, as a large-hearted smoker
makes the air go up with gratitude.

But as a burnt child dreads the fire, the seriously perforated animal
kept one eye vigilant of the northern aspect, and the other studious
of the south. And the gentle Scuddy (who was finding all things happy,
which is the only way to make them so) was startled by a sharp jerk of
his dear friend's head. Following the clue of gaze, there he saw, coming
up the river with a rollicking self-trust, a craft uncommonly like that
craft which had mounted every sort of rig and flag, and carried every
kind of crew, in his many dreams about her. This made him run back to
his room at once, not only in fear of being seen upon the bank, but also
that he might command a better view, with the help of his landlord's old
spy-glass.

Using this, which he had cleaned from the dust of ages, he could clearly
see the faces of the men on board. Of these there were six, of whom five
at least were Englishmen, or of English breed. As the pilot-boat drew
nearer, and the sunlight fell upon her, to his great surprise he became
convinced that the young man at the tiller was Dan Tugwell, the son
of the captain of Springhaven. Four of the others were unknown to him,
though he fancied that he had seen two of them before, but could not
remember when or where. But he watched with special interest the tall
man lounging against the little door of the cuddy in the bows, whose
profile only was presented to him. Then the boat canted round towards
the entrance of the creek, and having his glass upon the full face of
the man, he recognised him as Caryl Carne, whom he had met more than
once at Springhaven.

His darkest suspicions were at once redoubled, and a gush of latent
jealousy was added to them. In happier da