‘I’m sorry; but there’s all sorts of tobacconists,’ Pharaoh replied. ‘How far out, now, would you call that smack with the patch on her foresail?’ He pointed to the fishing-boats. ‘A scant mile,’ said Puck after a quick look. ‘Just about. It’s seven fathom under her--clean sand. That was where Uncle Aurette used to sink his brandy kegs from Boulogne, and we fished ‘em up and rowed ‘em into The Gap here for the ponies to run inland. One thickish night in January of ‘Ninety-three, Dad and Uncle Lot and me came over from Shoreham in the smack, and we found Uncle Aurette and the L’Estranges, my cousins, waiting for us in their lugger with New Year’s presents from Mother’s folk in Boulogne. I remember Aunt Cecile she’d sent me a fine new red knitted cap, which I put on then and there, for the French was having their Revolution in those days, and red caps was all the fashion. Uncle Aurette tells us that they had cut off their King Louis’ head, and, moreover, the Brest forts had fired on an English man-o’-war. The news wasn’t a week old. ‘“That means war again, when we was only just getting used to the peace,” says Dad. “Why can’t King George’s men and King Louis’ men do on their uniforms and fight it out over our heads?” ‘“Me too, I wish that,” says Uncle Aurette. “But they’ll be pressing better men than themselves to fight for ‘em. The press-gangs are out already on our side. You look out for yours.” ‘“I’ll have to bide ashore and grow cabbages for a while, after I’ve run this cargo; but I do wish”--Dad says, going over the lugger’s side with our New Year presents under his arm and young L’Estrange holding the lantern--“I just do wish that those folk which make war so easy had to run one cargo a month all this winter. It ‘ud show ‘em what honest work means.” ‘“Well, I’ve warned ye,” says Uncle Aurette. “I’ll be slipping off now before your Revenue cutter comes. Give my love to Sister and take care o’ the kegs. It’s thicking to southward.” ‘I remember him waving to us and young Stephen L’Estrange blowing out the lantern. By the time we’d fished up the kegs the fog came down so thick Dad judged it risky for me to row ‘em ashore, even though we could hear the ponies stamping on the beach. So he and Uncle Lot took the dinghy and left me in the smack playing on my fiddle to guide ‘em back.