A few half frightened, half mocking children stood about in the road; but at the windows not a single face was to be seen. Tregenna, who was at the head of the pursuing force, saw, to his chagrin, that it was now impossible for him to hope to come up with the smugglers. Lightened of their burdens, and already well ahead of their pursuers, they flew like the wind up the steep street towards the old church, without so much as looking behind them to give the cutter’s men a chance of seeing and remembering their faces. At this point in the route, however, they all somewhat abruptly disappeared, with the exception of the one who had given the signal. From his limping gait, Tregenna had long since recognized him as “Gardener Tom,” and he felt at the first moment rather sorry that this man, the only one of the “free-traders” for whom he felt the slightest kindness, should be the only one to fall into his hands. It was not until he had reached the queer little irregular group of nestling houses clustering round the church, that Tom suddenly turned, put his back against the steep wall which banked up the houses on one side of the roadway, folded his arms, and waited for Tregenna to come up to him. The lieutenant, expecting that Tom had a pistol ready for him, put his hand to one of his own. The smuggler, however, shook his head, and held up his hands. “Where are the rest?” cried Tregenna, more by instinct than because he expected a useful answer. Tom, whose handsome, open face was flushed with his exertions, smiled mockingly at him. “Wheer? Wheer?” asked he, with a shake of the head. “Nay, master, look round, and see if ’twill be easy for you to light upon ’em now!” Tregenna did look round. He saw the close-packed cottages, some prim and neat, with a sort of look about them as if no creature within had ever heard of so terrible a thing as a smuggler: some dirty and neglected, and capable of anything: but all shut up, and without a human face at any window. One mean-looking little alehouse at the corner did certainly bear a sort of rakish, contraband look. But a peep within its doors showed that the landlord and one old man had it, to all appearances, to themselves. Tregenna sighed, and frowned. “Well, I must arrest you, Tom, and carry you off at least,” said he. “I be smuggling naught, master!” objected Tom, quite mildly. “You were signalman to the others,” answered Tregenna. “You’re one of the gang.” Tom took this very quietly. “All roight, take me if you will,” said he. “’Twas you, sir, that gave me the hurt makes me too lame to get away!” said he. Tregenna frowned, and looked uneasily round at his own men, who, deeming him quite able to cope with this, the only one of the ruffians whom they had in their power, had dispersed in various directions, engaged in the rather hopeless task of ferreting out their lost enemies. “I’d sooner have caught any one of the others, Tom,” said Tregenna, “than laid hands on thee.”