"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.