“His gift. They’m tokened, though God send you’ll lay un by the heels an’ show her the mistake she’m makin’ in time. An’ now listen, for I doan’t want to be seen with you in public no more. When I quarrelled with the man,—Godbeer,—I knowed he’d change the appointed date; an’ sure enough he did so. But theer’s wan hand of his crew—no call to name names—who be on my side; an’ he’ve told me the real date. Which that is Wednesday next, if this here northeast wind holds.” “That’s the day I be taking my men to Dartmouth.” “D’you think Merry Jonathan doan’t know that? He knows everything. He knows I be talkin’ to ’e now; but he doan’t know what I’ve told ’e; and he’d be ravin’ mad if he did.” “Us mustn’t go to Dartmouth then.” “No fay! But you must let him think you have. You must start by day an’ get back after dusk an’ lie by the cliff roads—some of your chaps by each; for theer ban’t no other ways up. An’ the Dartymouth cutter must slip out the moment after dimpsy light; an’ wi’ any luck you’ll take the Frenchman tu. Of course Wednesday be the day Cap’n Wade always sails west wi’ the cutter. He’m such a man of method that the smugglers know to a mile wheer the fool be, so reg’lar as they know moon an’ tides.” “I’ll change all that,” declared Bluett. “An’ best begin Wednesday; an’ you must swear on your dying oath my name doan’t come out. For Jonathan would swing for me, so cheerful as a flea, if he heard I’d informed.” The officer regarded Johnny with stern contempt. “The dirty work of the world have got to be done; an’ your breed never dies,” he said; “you’re not nice, but you’re needful—like vultures an’ jackals as I’ve seed around foreign ports. No, I’ll not name you.” “As to reward? Theer’s my friend tu, as have told me the secret. ’Tis right us should get our deserts for smashing that cowardly dog. An’ God, He knows how poor I be. But theer’ll be a thousand golden guineas in it for you, so like as not; an’ if you take the foreigner, her’ll be worth a Jew’s-eye, for she’s a butivul thing by all accounts, though if the cutter catches her ’twill be by stealth, not sailin’.” “’Twould make a stir,” admitted the other, cautiously. Then a sudden wave of suspicion crossed his mind. “If you’re lying to me, you’ll repent it,” he said. “Judge by what I lose,” retorted the old man, almost tearfully. “To put this harvest into your hands is to rob my own pocket. Baccy an’ winter drinkin’—I give up all for the hate I bear against that man. But take my word or leave it.” Old Cramphorn’s bitterness of expression and the lean fist raised and shaken at Merry Jonathan’s empty boat hard by, went far to convince Mr. Bluett. That day he hired a horse and rode over to Dartmouth and in the evening met his secret accomplice again among the usual crowd at the bar of the “Golden Anchor.” Jonathan Godbeer was not present, but the rest of the company now knew the officer by name and treated him with outward civility and respect.