“What I’m fearin’ is that these scamps have been at theer games all the week,” gasped the aged Johnny while he shuffled forward. “Theer’s a dark plot against our good name, and while we’ve all been countin’ to rub it in to-morrow night, they’ve run theer cargo and hid it in the ruin of the Manor this longful time—pulled it up the cliff an’ been takin’ it away reg’lar night after night, while honest men was on the watch—some place else.” “Makes me near burst wi’ rage,” said Jonathan, “an’ all them fine fellows ready, an’ the cutter sailin’ about over the sea so butivul! An’ perhaps the cargo was run that very night Cap’n Bluett comed amongst us at the ‘Golden Anchor,’ an’ told us what a great man he was. All play-actin’, an’ even my own girl Jenifer to come home so frightened. To think a man’s own girl would deceive him so wicked!” “Wi’ Pastor Yates at his post tu, tryin’ so hard to larn us all better!” panted Cramphorn. Now ahead loomed a huge black object where crossways met at a lonely spot nearly a mile inland. It was empty and proved to be the skeleton of a farm waggon painted black, boarded up, and adorned with tufts of shavings dipped in tar. The snow had been trampled for twenty yards round about it and indications of other wheels diverged landward on three sides into the night. Cramphorn, Godbeer and Robert Bluett, now far ahead of their companions, stood before this spectacle. “They’ve done you, by G—!” gasped the old man. “An’ to think of all your bold heroes with theer swords an’ cutlasses an’ pistols a-sitting freezing in every lane and by every drain an’ rat-hole around the village! ’Tis amazin’ such things be allowed to fall out.” The officer did not answer. He had seen the ancient and Godbeer grin amiably each upon the other, and now his thick skull appreciated the truth and he turned to chew his gall alone. Merry Jonathan shouted after him. “Ten to one they’ll tell ’e that Maypole chap as walked in front of the funeral was a man by the name of Godbeer. But don’t you b’lieve it, Cap’n. You’ll never catch me an’ Master Cramphorn in no such job.” “Though we’ve made up our difference, as becomes Christian men,” declared Johnny. Bluett turned and addressed them. “They cry loudest who cry last,” he said. “The stones be piled as’ll hold you tight yet, you bowldacious thieves; an’ the wood be seasoned as you’ll swing from.” Cramphorn wagged his beard. “My stars! Hark to un! Theer’s a sour temper! Theer’s sorry thanks for all we’ve done! ’Tis a very thankless generation for sartain. Gimme your arm back-along, Merry. We’m most tu good to mix wi’ common men—you an’ me—that’s the naked truth of it.” NOTES. {3} Copyright, 1900. {10} _Rexens for cannel-making_. Rushes for candle-making. {16} _Taffety_. Delicate, dainty. {70} _Church-vamp_. Font. {84} _Giglet-market_. A hiring fair for domestic servants, held in times past at Okehampton and elsewhere in the West. {100} _Mommet_. Scapegoat.