Jack set off at a good pace, vaulted the many stiles that crossed the field path, and in less than half an hour found himself approaching a fine old red-brick house nestling among trees at the edge of the cliff. He paused for a few moments before lifting the latch of the gate to take a look round. There, in a hollow between the two cliffs, lay the village of Luscombe, its few cottages straggling from the beach up the slope. Two or three fishing smacks lay alongside the short stone jetty: others rocked gently in the little bay. A turn of the path hid them from sight for a minute or two; when next they came into view Jack was surprised to see one of the smacks making under full sail out to sea. "Smart work that!" he thought. "There was no sign of her putting off a few minutes ago. The Luscombe fishers would make good king’s men, by the look of it; they’ll have a visit from the press-gang one of these days." He watched until the smack rounded the point; then he turned, opened the gate, walked up the gravel path, and pulled the bell at the door of Bastable Grange. *CHAPTER II* *MONSIEUR DE FRONSAC* Jack was shown into a little snuggery, where he found a red-faced, blue-eyed gentleman sitting deep in a comfortable arm-chair, his legs perched on a smaller chair. His black hair was tied in a short queue; he had curly side whiskers: and he wore the full uniform of the Dorsetshire yeomanry—a tight red coat with a high stock, white buckskin breeches, and big Hessian boots that came to the knee. "A young gentleman to see you, sir," said the servant. "How d’ye do, Cousin Humfrey?" said Jack, advancing with a smile and outstretched hand. "Who in the world are you?" said Mr. Bastable, clutching the arms of his chair, his eyelids squeezed together oddly. "Oh! I’m Jack Hardy. Mother said I was to be sure and call. My traps are coming after." "They are, are they? You’re a pretty cool young spark, aren’t you? I must take it, I suppose, that you’re my Cousin Millicent’s boy, eh?" "Of course, Cousin Humfrey. She said you’d be glad to put me up for a day or two, if I reminded you what friends you and she were, I don’t know how many years ago." "She did, eh? Well, you’d better give an account of yourself. How old are you, and what are you doing in these parts? I don’t suppose you came all the way from London to remind me of your mother." "I’m sixteen, sir, and just appointed to the _Fury_—you know, the revenue cutter now repairing at Wynport. I’ve got a few days’ leave, so I’ve just walked over." "So I should suppose. Your boots look as if you’d walked through half a dozen horseponds on the way." "Only one, cousin," replied Jack, laughing. "That was in helping a friend of yours, who tumbled over through walking backwards looking at a chimney on fire: Mr. Gudgeon, the farmer." "A friend of mine, eh? Well, not exactly," said Mr. Bastable dryly. "So his chimney was afire."