"Ay, ay, sir!"

"What is it?"

"Casks!"

"What did I promise you?" Mr. Smellie turned to Captain Arbuthnot in triumph. "Luxmore!" he called aloud.

"Ay, ay, sir!" came the Chief Boatman's voice in answer.

"There's a plank handy. Roll us a sample or two ash.o.r.e here, and fetch along chisel and auger."

"If you think it necessary, sir--"

"Do as you're told, man! . . . Ah, here we are!"--as a couple of preventive men splashed ash.o.r.e, trundling a cask along the plank between them, and up-ended it close by the water's edge.

Captain Arbuthnot had dismounted and, advancing with his arm through his charger's bridle, bent over the cask.

"Devilish queer-smelling brandy!" he observed, drawing back a pace and sniffing.

"It has been standing in the bilge. These fellows never clean out their boats from one year's end to another," said Mr. Smellie, positively. Yet he, too, eyed the cask with momentary suspicion.

In shape, in colour, it resembled the tubs in which Guernsey ordinarily exported its _eau-de-vie_. It was slung, too, ready for carriage, and with French left-handed rope, and yet. . . . It seemed unusually large for a Guernsey tub . . . and unusually light in scantling. . . .

"Shall I spile en, maister?" asked one of the preventive men, producing a large auger.

"No, stave its head in. And fetch a pannikin, somebody. There's good water at the beach-head; and I dare say your men, Captain, won't despise a tot of French liquor after their ride."

The preventive man set his chisel against the inner rim of the cask, and dealt it a short sharp blow with his hammer, a sort of trial tap, to guide his aim. "French liquor?" He sniffed. "Furrin fruit, more like. Phew! Keep back there, and stand by for lavender!"

Crash! . . .

"Pf--f!"

"Ar-r-r-ugh! Oh, merciful Heaven!" Captain Arbuthnot staggered back, clapping thumb and forefinger to his nose.

"PILCHARDS!"

"SALT PILCHARDS!"

"ROTTEN PILCHARDS!"

Mr. Smellie opened his mouth, but collapsed in a fit of retching, as from right and left, and from the darkness all around him, a roar of Homeric laughter woke the echoes of the Cove. Men rolled about laughing. Men leaned against one another to laugh.

Already the preventive men on board the luggers--having been rash enough to prise open some half a dozen casks--had dropped overboard and were wading ash.o.r.e, coughing and spitting as they came. Amid the uproar Major Hymen kept a perfectly grave face.

"You see, sir," he explained to Captain Arbuthnot, "Mr. Smellie is fond of hunting where there is no fox. So some of my youngsters. .h.i.t on the idea of providing him with a drag. They have spent a week at least in painting these casks to look like the real thing. . . . I am sorry, sir, that you and your gallant fellows should have been misled by an officious civilian; but if I might suggest your marching on to Looe, where a good supper awaits us, to take this taste out of our mouths--and good liquor too, not contraband, to drown resentment--"

The Captain may surely be pardoned if for the moment even this gentle speech failed to placate him. He turned in dudgeon amid the grinning crowd and was in the act of remounting, but missed the stirrup as his charger reared and backed before the noise of yet another diversion.

No one knows who dipped into the cask and flung the first handful over unhappy Mr. Smellie. No one knows who led the charge down upon the boats, or gave the cry to stave in the barrels on board. But in a trice the preventive men were driven overboard and, as they leapt into the shallow water, were caught and held and drenched in the noisome mess; while the Riding Officer, plastered ere he could gain his saddle, ducked his head and galloped up the beach under a torrential shower of deliquescent pilchards.

The Dragoons did not interfere.

"Shall it be for Looe, Captain?" challenged Major Hymen, waving his blade and calling on the Gallants to re-form. And as he challenged, by the happiest of inspirations the band, catching up their instruments, crashed out with:

"Oh, the De'il's awa'-- The De'il's awa'-- The De'il's awa' wi' th' exciseman!"

CHAPTER VIII.

"COME, MY CORINNA, COME!"

Miss Marty drew aside her window curtain to watch the rising moon.

She could not sleep. Knowing that she would not be able to sleep, she had not undressed.

She gazed out upon the street, dark now and deserted. No light signalled to her from the attic window behind which Dr. Hansombody so often sat late over his books and b.u.t.terfly cases. He had gone with the others.

She listened. The house was silent save for the m.u.f.fled snoring of Scipio in his cupboard-bedroom under the stairs. She raised the window-sash gently, leaned out upon the soft spring night, and listened again.

Far down the street, from the purlieus of the Town Quay, her ear caught a murmur of voices--of voices and happy subdued laughter.

The maidens of Troy were embarking; and to-morrow would be May morning.

Miss Marty sighed. How long was it since she had observed May morning and its rites? The morrow, too, if the Vicar and the Major were right in their calculations, would usher in the Millennium.

But again, what was the Millennium to her? Could it bring back her youth?

She heard the boats draw near and go by. The houses to the left hid them from her: but she leaned out, hearkening to the soft plash of oars, the creak of thole-pins, the girls' voices in hushed chorus practising the simple native harmonies they would lift aloud as they returned after sunrise. She recognised the tune, too; the old tune of "The Padstow Hobby-horse,"--

"Unite and unite, and let us all unite, For summer is a-come in to-day-- And whither we are going we will all go in white In the merry merry morning of May.

"Rise up, Master--, and joy you betide, For summer is a-come in to-day-- And blithe is the bride lays her down by your side In the merry merry morning of May."

Hushed though the voices were, each word fell distinct on her ear as the boats drew near and pa.s.sed up the tideway.

"Rise up, Mistress--, all in your smock of silk, For summer is a-come in to-day-- And all your body under as white as any milk In the merry merry morning of May."

The voices faded away up the river. Only the lilt of the song came back to her now, but memory supplied the words. Had they not been sung under her window years ago?

"Rise up, Mistress Marty, all out of your bed, For summer is a-come in to-day-- Your chamber shall be spread with the white rose and red In the merry merry morning of May.

"O where be the maidens that here now should sing?

For summer is a-come in to-day-- They be all in the meadows the flowers gathering, In the merry merry morning of May."

What magic was there in this artless ditty that kept Miss Marty lingering awhile with moist eyes ere she closed the window-sash?

"Wh'st! Miss Mar-ty!"

Heavens! Whose voice was that, calling up hoa.r.s.ely from the shadows?

She peered out, but could see n.o.body. Suddenly her maiden modesty took alarm. What possessed her to be standing here exposed, and exposing the interior of her lighted bed-chamber to view from the street? She ran back in a flurry and blew out the candles; then, returning, put up a hand to draw down the window-sash.