It was but the work of a few minutes to ransack the little cottage. Cupboards were opened, the stone flags of the floor tested, the loft between the rafters and the roof explored, but nothing was found. Gumley watched the operations in silence, puffing at a big pipe in which he was smoking cabbage leaves. "We’ll have to search the garden now, sir," said one of the men. Gumley took his pipe from his lips. "The garden!" he said. "Well, mind my artichokes. They bean’t ripe, not till the first frost, and it won’t do ’em no good to disturb ’em." He knew that in expeditions of this kind every inch of ground would probably be explored. Smugglers had been known to have cunningly devised hiding-places beneath the soil, under the roots of apple trees, or pear trees, or raspberry bushes. He watched with a grim smile as the men spread out over the garden, falling on all fours to smell out any traces of brandy or tobacco. He said nothing when they dug over a plot of ground from which he had recently taken the last of his late potatoes. But when they approached a flourishing bed of artichokes he heaved a great sigh, and said: "There goes two-pun-ten in Wynport market, and all in the king’s name." Jack had felt more and more uncomfortable as the search proceeded. When a square yard of the plot had been cleared of its tall green stalks he suddenly shouted: "Give over, men. This is all a blind. There are no smuggled goods here. Gumley was a king’s man like yourselves. I don’t believe he has anything hidden; we’ll sheer off and report to Mr. Blake that we can’t find anything. Some one must have a spite against you, Gumley." "I could have told you that, sir, but I keeps myself to myself, and ’twas not for me to stand up against the king’s orders. Messmates all, I’m sorry you’ve had your blood warmed for nothing. Bless you, I don’t bear you no ill-will; orders is orders, and God save the king!" He took off his glazed hat as he spoke. "Well, Gumley I’m sorry we disturbed you. Look here, take those artichokes up to the Grange when they’re ripe and ask my cousin, the squire, to give you fifty shillings for them. Say I said so. Now, men, we’ll get back. We owe the smugglers one for this, and we’ll pay it back, all in good time." *CHAPTER VII* *THE BEST-LAID SCHEMES* There was a good deal of grumbling among the men as they trudged back to Wynport. No man likes to be made a fool of, and a Jack Tar as little as any. "This is what comes of doing landlubbers’ work instead of fighting the French on sea," growled Turley. A heavy rainstorm that came on did not improve their tempers, and when, just as they marched into Wynport, they were overtaken by Mr. Goodman, riding at a smart pace from a cross-road, they began to mutter uncomplimentary remarks about the zealous officer. "Any luck, Mr. Hardy?" he cried, as he passed. "None," replied Jack shortly.