Part 2

"Why, if they did, cousin, there'd be a chance for you. I'd like to see the yeomanry cavalry dashing at 'em as they landed, sabers out, cut and thrust, ding-dong, over you go. Oh, it won't be so easy as Master Boney imagines. Don't you think he's off his chump, cousin?--Beg pardon, Cousin Sylvia, I mean cracked; that is, mad--why, 'tis said he's had a medal struck to commemorate his invasion; his own precious head on one side and a figure of Hercules strangling the sea monster on the other. The sea monster's us, you know, Monsieur. And he's got the words 'Struck at London, 1804,' on the thing--isn't that cool cheek? Better have waited till he got to London--don't you think so, cousin?"

Thus he chattered on, amusing his relatives with his frank boyish confidence, and especially pleasing Monsieur de Fronsac, as it appeared, for the French tutor was constantly showing his teeth as he smiled.

"It is good to hear," he said once. "I like it. I do not lov dis Napoleon; truly he is a monstair."

"Makes a breakfast of babies, don't he?" said Jack.

"That's rubbish, of course," said Mr. Bastable. "But he's a monster all the same, as Monsieur says; and I warrant if he does manage to escape you blue-coated gentlemen of the navy he'll find us redcoats ready to meet him."

Monsieur de Fronsac retired immediately after dinner.

"Gone to scribble poetry," said Mr. Bastable with a smile, when the door was shut. "He's a decent fellow, and knows a heap of mathematics. I fancy he must have been crossed in love, for he's always writing poetry about the moon or the trees or the sea--so Arthur says, for he never shows his stuff to me. Now, we're early birds here, Jack. We'll play a rubber with the ladies, if you please, and then to bed."

At breakfast next morning Mr. Bastable was in particularly good humor. He had been out early, so he said; there was nothing like a ride before breakfast for freshening one up and improving one's appetite.

"By the way, Jack," he added, "when I was out I heard that the smugglers made a capital run last night--the first of the season."

"The villains!" cried Jack; "under my very nose!"

"Taking advantage of the _Fury's_ being laid up for repairs, you see. But no doubt you'll put a stop to it when once you get to work--eh, Jack?"

Jack fancied there was something quizzical about his cousin's smile as he said this, and wondered whether the squire was "smoking" him. But he answered cheerfully:

"We'll see, cousin. I don't know what sort of man Lieutenant Blake is: only saw him for the first time yesterday; but if he's anything of a goer we'll give the smugglers a warm time, I promise them."

"And how will you set about it, cousin?"

"Don't know, for my life!" said Jack with a laugh. "But there are forty ways of catching flies, and about the same number of tying knots; and we'll find out a way, you may be sure. By the by, cousin, can you tell me how to get to the cottage of an old tar named Joe Gumley? I had a chat with him yesterday as I came here, and I'd like to look him up."

"Yes, I can tell you. He's a tenant of mine. But he won't see you."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. He won't see you. He lives by himself and never admits a visitor. He's most unpopular with the village folk, and has to tramp to Wynport to sell his garden stuff."

"Why don't they like him?"

"Ah, well! The truth is he's an oddity, a very queer fellow."

This explanation by no means satisfied Jack, and he made up his mind to visit Gumley as he had intended. The sailor's cottage stood some distance farther along the cliff. After breakfast he set off alone toward it. Within ten minutes he came to a stout wooden fence tipped with nails, and so high that he could only just see over it. Then the view of the cottage itself was hidden by a mass of bushes and trees, the foliage of which, though tinged with autumn brown, was still thick. There was a gate in the fence, but no latch and no bell.

"An 'I'm-the-king-of-the-Castle' look about this," thought Jack. He lifted his cane and dealt the gate several smart raps. Immediately he heard a dog rushing down the garden, barking angrily. Standing on tiptoe he peered over, and saw an immense bulldog, thick-set, broad-chested, with an enormous and most ugly head, showing his teeth viciously. The moment the dog caught sight of Jack he redoubled his barking and dashed forward against the fence, as if furious to get at him.

"Good dog, good dog!" said Jack soothingly. "What's the matter with you, you son of a ten-pounder? I say, Gumley--ahoy! ahoy! Gumley!"

He raised his voice to a singsong, and sent the call rolling toward the cottage, rather enjoying the din made by himself and the dog, with a hundred echoes from every dell and hollow in the cliff. In a minute or two he saw the sailor stumping round the bushes, his head bare, his shirt open at the neck, a spade in one hand, and in the other a little square board.

"Oh, 'tis you, Mr. Hardy, sir. I was digging turnips at the back. Lor', sir, all Luscombe will know you've bin here, with this terrible row and all."

"I don't care if they do, and it was your dog that made the row."

"A good dog, sir. Living alone by myself, you see, I need a watch-dog. Come in, sir, come in."

He had removed a padlock, drawn two bolts and loosed two bars on the inner side, and thrown the gate open. Jack stepped into the garden, keeping an eye on the bulldog, which had ceased to bark as soon as Gumley appeared, but walked slowly round and round the visitor, sniffing at his legs as if choosing the best place for a bite.

"There's no cause for alarm, sir--leastways not while I'm on deck. I'd best introduce you proper like, then you'll be safe any time, fair weather or foul. This here's Comely; and this is Mr. Hardy of the _Fury_: twiggy-voo, as the mounseers say? Now pat him, sir."

Jack felt a little uneasy, but knowing that it is best to put a bold face on it, whether with dogs or men, he stooped and patted the massive head. With an expression that seemed to him more sinister than ever, the dog stuck out a red tongue and licked his hand.

"Now all's snug and shipshape, sir. Comely's your friend for life."

"Queer name that."

"True, sir. It was like this. I had a notion of calling him Handsome, 'cos handsome is as handsome does, and he does most uncommon handsome. But thinking it over between watches, as you may say, it seemed like poking fun at the poor beast that couldn't hit back, and I cast about for a name that would mean the same but not quite so strong. I tacked about for a time without catching a fair breeze, sir. Then all at once I remembered a word in my Bible: 'black but comely.' Comely's a good name, thinks I, and his muzzle's black, and my name's Gumley, so Comely it shall be: and Comely it is, sir. We're a pair, I can tell you, Comely and Gumley."

"A capital match," said Jack laughing. "But I say, why do you barricade yourself in like that?" Gumley had replaced padlock, bolts and bars. "Any one would think you were making ready to stand a siege."

"Well, sir, I won't say 'tis to be ready for Boney's landing, and I won't say 'tisn't."

He was now stumping up the path toward the cottage, and said no more. Jack saw that he did not mean to enlighten him, and changed the subject.

"I say, Gumley, why didn't you help Mr. Gudgeon out yesterday? You went on and left me to do it."

"Ay, ay, sir. The truth is, Mr. Gudgeon and me bean't, so to say, on speaking terms."

Jack felt that there was something puzzling about all this. Gumley was not popular with the villagers, Mr. Bastable had said; the old sailor had confessed to a feud or at least a coolness between himself and his neighbor on the opposite cliff. There was an honest look about his weather-beaten face; he did not seem to Jack morose or ill-tempered. What was at the bottom of this strange attitude of antagonism, shown by the man's somewhat elaborate defenses? Well, after all, it did not matter to Jack; his leave would be up in a few days, and then his duty would take him to sea.

He sat for some time in Gumley's trim little parlor, where everything bespoke the handy Jack Tar, chatting about sea life in general and the _Ariadne_ in particular. Then the talk came round to Jack's new vessel, the _Fury_, and brought up the question of smuggling.

"Mr. Gudgeon said that a good deal goes on about here," said Jack, "and by George! my cousin, Mr. Bastable, told me that the villains ran a cargo ashore only last night. I suppose he met the riding-officer as he went for his morning canter. Did you hear anything of it?"

"Not a word, sir. I keep myself to myself."

"Yes, Mr. Gudgeon said much the same thing, I remember. But I suppose you hear talk in the village sometimes?"

"Never bin into the village since I gave up fishing, sir. I get all my victuals from Wynport, and often don't set eyes on the village folk from week-end to week-end, except at Church at Wickham Ferrers on Sunday."

"Why you're quite a hermit--almost as bad as Congleton."

"True, sir, but I've never bin crossed in love, 'cos I never seed a maid I fancied afore I lost my leg, and there's ne'er a maid would take a fancy to a poor chap with a stump like this. And I'm afeard of going like Congleton, sir."

"Yes, but, Gumley, never mind about that. Tell me straight out, man; are the people in Luscombe below there smugglers or not--the whole crew of 'em, I mean?"

"Well, since you put it plain, sir, I wouldn't be surprised if some of 'em think a sight more of French brandy than of Jamaica rum."

"That's no answer, you old rascal. Well, I'm going down to the village to have a look round. I saw some neat little smacks at the jetty yesterday, and one of 'em put out pretty smartly, too: was uncommonly well handled."

"Well, sir, you be a fine, mettlesome young gentleman; but if so be as I might advise you, I'd say keep your weather-eye open. If so be they are a smuggling lot below--well, they won't be exactly main pleased to see a king's officer."

"Bless you, they won't know me. I'm not in uniform, you see. Nobody knows who I am but my cousins and you and Mr. Gudgeon."

"True, sir; and me and Mr. Gudgeon keeps ourselves to ourselves, to be sure."

*CHAPTER III*

*A FIGHT IN LUSCOMBE MARKET*

Jack was accompanied to the gate in quite a friendly way by Comely. He smiled as he heard the click of the lock and bolts behind him, and thought a good deal about Joe Gumley as he made his way down the steep cliff path to the fishing village below. It was quite a small village: a few cottages clustered about a cobbled square, with others climbing the cliff, each with its little bit of garden.

The harbor was protected by a natural breakwater of rock running out to sea, and forming an excellent defense against the southwest gales. A few brawny fishermen were lounging about in jerseys and sou'westers, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth. Jack tried to enter into conversation with them, but found them strangely taciturn. They looked hard at him before answering his questions, used few words, and gave him very little information. Mr. Bastable laughed when, meeting Jack at luncheon, he learned how he had spent the morning.

"They're not a talkative set," he said, "and were probably somewhat overcome by the presence of a king's officer."

"But how did they know I'm a king's officer, cousin? We fellows don't go blabbing about: I didn't tell 'em, and only Gumley and old Gudgeon know, besides you and my cousins."

"Perhaps it was Kate that told them. Ladies are great gossips, they say."

"I'm sure Kate doesn't go gossiping with fishermen; do you, Kate?"

"Indeed, no," said Kate, "'tis a shame to say so, father."

"I didn't say so, now did I, Jack? I said 'perhaps.' You don't suppose I went and boasted of having a king's officer as my guest, Mr. Midshipman Hardy; and Mr. Gudgeon and Gumley keep themselves to themselves, as they told you, my boy."

"Well, I can't make it out, and it doesn't matter."

"Probably they won't know you again in your uniform, Jack."

"Do you wear a dirk, cousin, and a belt with pistols in it?" asked Arthur eagerly.

"You may be sure he does," said Mr. Bastable; "looks a regular bucaneer, I've no doubt. You'll give old Gudgeon the flutters if he sees you in all your war-paint, Jack."

"Oh, come now, cousin!" protested Jack. "Our fellows don't look half so fierce as you yeomen. Boney will be terrified if he catches sight of your big hats and red coats."

"De uniform of de yeomen is ver' fine," said Monsieur de Fronsac, smiling. "It is quite beautiful. Dat is vat I say to Monsieur Arthur; dat de Monstair Bonaparte vill tr-r-emble ven he see de brave English yeomen."

Jack was interested in Monsieur de Fronsac. He had never met a Frenchman before, and he studied him as he might have studied a strange animal. After lunch he spent some time with the tutor, and learned something of his history. It appeared that on leaving France, a few years before, he had gone to live on his estates in Martinique, hoping there to escape the dangers to which, as a royalist, he would be exposed at home. But on the advent of Napoleon Bonaparte to power his property had been confiscated by the Bonapartist governor. He himself had been proscribed; he fled to Jamaica, thence to London. It was hard for poor _emigres_ to pick up a living. Happening to hear that a school in Wynport required a teacher of mathematics he had come down from London, only to find that the place had been filled. But luckily Mr. Bastable was at the time in search of a tutor for his son. De Fronsac heard of it from the master of Wynport school: he applied and was accepted.

"But I hope vun day to get back my estates, ven dat Monstair, dat impertinent from Corsica, lose his life, or ven he shall be reject from de throne he goes so impudent to seize."

Jack became a little tired of Monsieur de Fronsac's references to the Monstair. He never spoke of Bonaparte without tacking on the epithet. Of course, he had good reason for hating the First Consul if he had lost all his property and been compelled to teach for a living; but it was not the English way to call names--and always the same name. Jack set it down as one of the peculiarities of Frenchmen.

That evening, after dinner, the conversation once more came back to the subject which was then discussed more often than any other among the good people of the south coast--the expected landing of the French. Mr. Bastable was inclined to think that with so long a coast-line open to him, and so many possible landing-places, Bonaparte would only have to choose his time carefully to be able, with any kind of luck, to make his descent. But Jack scoffed at the idea.

"What about Nelson, and Collingwood, and Keith, cousin? They'd smash him before he got half-way across."

"But Nelson is away in the Mediterranean, isn't he? He can't be everywhere at once, Jack."

"And every one can't be a Nelson, but we can do our best."

"I wonder where Boney would think of landing. Somewhere west, not Pevensey like the Conqueror: too near London. The Conqueror sailed from Boulogne, didn't he?"

"Don't think so, cousin: Boulogne isn't in Normandy."

"Still, I'm pretty sure it was Boulogne. Monsieur will know. We'll ask him."

"I'll go and find him; hope I shan't interrupt his flow of poetry."

Jack hurried off, and learned that the tutor had gone out some little time before.

"He said he were gwine fur a promenade," said the servant whom Jack asked.

"Which way did he go?"

"Down along by Congleton's Hollow, sir."

"Well, I'll go after him. Tell your master I'll be back soon."

A footpath over the fields led to Congleton's Hollow, about a mile and a half from the Grange. Jack had visited the spot in the afternoon with his cousin Arthur. They had climbed over the half-ruined wall, and wandered about in the dense plantation. Under the trees it was quite dim, even in daylight; and where there were no large trees the ground was thickly covered with a tangle of bushes and ferns. Blackberries and nuts grew in abundance, and the boys had gathered them by handfuls, regardless of scratches, or rents in their clothes. Rabbits scurried across the path from patches of tall brake; squirrels blinked out of the foliage. The place had a wild beauty of its own--the romantic charm of a spot seldom visited by men.

Delightful as it had been in the afternoon sunlight, it seemed to Jack more delightful still in the dusk of this beautiful September evening. The moon was just rising, throwing pale shafts of light through the trees, deepening the shadows. An owl hooted from the top of the Folly; as Jack picked his way through the brake he heard the whisk of scared rabbits. By the time he reached a part of the ruined wall whence he could look over a stretch of open country he had almost forgotten his errand. He sat on the wall, dangling his legs. There, across the fields to his right, the moonbeams shone on the weathercock on Gudgeon's roof. Luscombe was out of sight in the dip of the cliffs, but he fancied he could hear the grinding of the surf on the shingle.

Suddenly he started. The light southeast breeze blowing toward him brought the sound of low voices a little way ahead. Was it Monsieur de Fronsac speaking? Jack thought he recognized the low smooth tones. Should he go on? That would be to risk overhearing the speakers. He hesitated; he heard another voice, deeper, rougher; then both voices together, as if in altercation.

"This won't do!" thought Jack. "I'd better clear out." So he sprang lightly down from his perch and began to retrace his steps, walking slowly as he had come, and looking back every now and again to see whether the tutor was following. At last, just as he reached the first of half a dozen stiles between himself and the Grange, he saw Monsieur de Fronsac's figure come into the moonlight from the shade of the trees half a mile behind. He was alone. Jack sat on the stile and waited.

The Frenchman walked with downcast eyes and for a few moments did not perceive him. Catching sight of him at length, he seemed to be startled, for he halted and made a strange upward movement of the right hand. But his pause was only momentary. He came on again, and as soon as he was near enough to see clearly who was sitting on the stile, he showed his teeth in a brilliant smile, and called softly:

"Hi! Monsieur Jack, I see you."

"Well, I'm pretty solid, Monsieur," returned Jack with a smile. "The place looks lonely enough for a ghost, don't it? I'd come to meet you; got a question to ask."

"Ah! truly de place is romanesque. It demand poesy. Often do I come here, in evenings ven de moon is bright, to compose poesy. It please me, it console me in my miseries. I come dis minute from composing a poem about de moon. Vill I declaim it? Is Monsieur interested?"

"Oh, fire away!" said Jack. He thought he might as well humor this singular Frenchman. "Stop a bit, is it in French or English? If it's in French it'll be clean over my head."

"No, it is in English. I compose alvays in English since dat Monstair have maltreat me. I recite it: listen:

"'_De moon, she shine in de sky_ _O lovely! O sharming!_ _Ven I look, vat can I? I sigh._ _Vat fine zing for farming!_'

"I explain dat: Your so difficult language have not good rhymes: and dere needs one for 'sharming.' I recollect myself to have seen de farmers making hay by de moonlight. Dat also vas sharming sight, so I put him in my verse."

"First-rate," said Jack. "Go on; I like that bit."

"I have no more complete at present. It take so much to seek your English rhymes. Now in my language--"

And Monsieur de Fronsac began a long course on French poetry, keeping up a steady flow of talk which lasted till they reached the Grange. Not till they were entering the drawing-room together did Jack remember the question he had gone to ask.

"Well, Jack, I'm right, eh?" called Mr. Bastable.

"'Pon my life, cousin, I forgot to ask. Monsieur has been entertaining me with poetry and things, and drove the question clean out of my head. Where did William the Conqueror sail from, Monsieur?"

"I do not know, I regret to say."

Mr. Bastable laughed.

"Well, we're none the wiser. Come, Jack, take a hand at cards. We've been waiting this half-hour."

When Jack was alone in his bedroom, and thought of his meeting with De Fronsac, he felt vaguely uneasy. Why had the tutor been so anxious to explain his walk? Why had he talked on and on so glibly about such a dull subject as French poetry, with the evident desire to prevent Jack from talking? Why had he made no reference to his companion in the Hollow? His friends, his private business, were, of course, no concern of Jack's; but the position of De Fronsac in the Bastable household scarcely seemed consistent with stealthy meetings in retired spots, and Jack, without knowing why, did not like it. But he slept none the less soundly, and had almost forgotten it by the morning.

The third day of his visit Jack had pretty much to himself. The ladies drove early into Wynport to see a dressmaker, and would not return till late; Arthur was engaged with his tutor; and Mr. Bastable had to go to the county town on yeomanry business. Jack spent part of the day in roaming about the cliffs, and in the afternoon went down to the shore, to bathe and watch the fishing-boats go out. Dinner had been put back an hour, so that he delayed his return to the Grange somewhat later than usual.

As he made his way up the hill, turning off through a narrow lane to the left, he tripped over a cord that had suddenly been drawn tight in front of him. There had been rain during the morning, and the place had been carefully chosen by the practical jokers, who betrayed their presence by a subdued chuckle from an alley-way on Jack's right as he fell head forward into a pool of mud.

Jack had served an apprenticeship in the art of practical joking in the _Ariadne_. Not for nothing had he been for two years a "youngster" in a midshipman's mess. He knew that the best way to discourage the gentle sport in others was to take summary vengeance on the joker--if he could get at him. He picked himself up in a trice, dashed into the alley-way--so narrow that there was scarcely room for more than one to pass at a time--and saw before him the back of a hulking form disappearing into the dusk, and hiding, as Jack judged from the clumping of heavy boots, a number of his fellow conspirators in front.

The fugitive was tall, but his clumsy body seemed too heavy for his short legs, and he moved slowly. Jack was upon him just as he emerged from the narrow alley into the open square of the village. Catching sight, with the readiness of one accustomed to use his eyes, of a convenient muck-heap--there were always convenient muck-heaps in town or country a hundred years ago, when sanitary inspection was still undreamed of--Jack neatly tripped the burly figure into its soft and odorous embrace. There was a great yell from the other fugitives, who stopped their flight when they found that they were not in immediate danger; and as they closed in toward the spluttering victim, now slowly raising himself, Jack saw that they were some of the boys and youths of the village, whose eyes he had often noticed upon him as he passed through. And there was something strangely familiar in the attitude of the hobbledehoy struggling clumsily to his feet. He was not a fisher lad; where had Jack seen him before? The cries of the crowd enlightened him.

"Fight un, Bill Gudgeon!"

"Heave un into midden, Billy."

"Black his eyes!"

"Give un a nobbier!"

But Bill Gudgeon, like his father, was inclined to keep himself to himself.

"Not if I knows it," he said slowly, as he sheered off. "Maister and me be quits now."