There were about thirty, all well armed and dressed in usual mariner’s style, save that two or three wore smocks. Several carried beakers on their shoulders, while two bore between them a small but heavy chest. They had evidently had a successful haul, for all were in high spirits, and the chorus of their gruesome song echoed along the walls of the cavern. The refrain was interrupted by one of the men exclaiming that their stores had been disturbed, and a search commenced which might have ended with my discovery but for the fact that in the far end of the cave, immediately underneath the funnel through which I had fallen, lay the dead body of a fox, whose body had broken my headlong descent. Deeming this a satisfactory explanation for this interruption, the rogues resumed their carousing. I could now see how near I had been to regaining my freedom, for just beyond the place where my tour of exploration had abruptly terminated was the entrance to the cave, skilfully hidden by a heavy screen of painted canvas that, even at a short distance, would deceive all who were not acquainted with the secret. For nearly an hour the smugglers devoted themselves to a reckless carouse, till at length their leader called for silence. With a discipline that is rare amongst such people, the gang sat down on barrels and rough stools and awaited their captain’s orders. In the broad Dorset dialect their leader recounted the various successful runs they had made, as if vainglorious of their deeds, and finished by demanding: "Be there any of ye as be not content with his share?" Their answer, with one voice, was "No". "Then," resumed the speaker, "if so be as that ye are all content, how comes it that one of ye must needs taake bloodmoney from the gaugers? And how comes it that dree[1] of our’n have been stuck wi’ a Bridport dagger?"[2] [1] Dree=three, still used in Wilts and Dorset. [2] "Stuck wi’ a Bridport dagger".--A local witticism meaning to be hanged, Bridport being noted for the manufacture of hempen rope. The smugglers looked at one another in amazement. Clearly there was a Judas amongst them. "Stand out, Ned Crocker!" There was a scuffling in the farther corner of the cavern, and presently a man was roughly hauled out into the centre of the assembly. I could see him distinctly; he was a little, under-sized apology for a man, with sharp, pointed features, a nose resembling a bird’s beak, a loose, weak-natured mouth, and small, shifty eyes. His complexion was dark, almost of a dirty yellow, while his face was covered with blotches and pimples. In his terror his skin turned almost a greyish white, while his thin legs, which struck me as being too weak for even his undersized body, were bent and shaking like a reed in a March gale. Several of the rogues hurled imprecations at him, but their leader silenced them by raising his hand. "I bain’t a done nothin’!" cried the miserable wretch.