The newcomer listened grimly to matters now much exercising Daleham. He was a hard-faced man with a blue chin and black eyes, whose short, double-breasted jacket, wide breeches, glazed hat and pigtail marked a seafarer. “As for ghostes,” he said, “can’t swear I’ve ever seed one, but no sailor-man, as have witnessed the Lord’s wonders in the deep, would dare to doubt ’em.” “Just picture a whole throng, my dear!” John Cramphorn spoke. He was an ancient fisher, and his face might have stood for the Apostle Peter’s; but it quite gave the lie to his character, for this venerable man was hand in glove with the smugglers, had himself been a free-trader of renown, and now very gladly placed his wit and experience at the command of the younger generation. No word was ever whispered against him openly, and yet the rumour ran that Johnny had his share of every cargo successfully run upon these coasts, and that he was the guiding spirit ashore, while “Merry Jonathan,” or Jonathan Godbeer of Daleham, captained on the water that obscure body known as the Daleham free-traders. With such a sailor as Jonathan afloat and such a wise-head as Mr. Cramphorn at home, the local smugglers earned a measure of fame that reached even to the Revenue. Indeed, at the moment of this story’s opening, the little fishing village, with uneasy pride, was aware that a Preventive Officer had been appointed for its especial chastisement and control; but none feared the issue. Every woman and child at Daleham knew that it would task men of uncommon metal with hard heads and thick skulls to lay their local champions by the heels.