These workmen, though Londoners and therefore “foreigners” in Sussex, to be watched suspiciously and askance, were nevertheless cheery souls who whistled and sang and cracked jokes with old Penelope what time they thatched and glazed and painted. In the midst of which business down came Mr. Sturton bristling with outraged authority, who loudly demanded to know by what right and by whose permission they dared thus violate the dignity of rotting thatch and sanctity of decaying wall; whereupon he was shown a paper signed by a certain name that caused him to open his eyes very wide and close his mouth very tight and walk away vastly thoughtful. My Lord Sayle also, though never stirring abroad, was by no means inactive, nay, rather his zeal for the suppression of smugglers in general and capture of one in particular, waxed to a fervour which was presently manifest to all and sundry, more especially the highly virtuous inhabitants of Alfriston, the quiet of whose sleepy High Street was frequently scandalised by the tramp of soldiery, hoarse commands and the clatter of accoutrements; at which times, and with passionless regularity, Mr. George Potter’s cottage would be searched from cellar to attic and its walls and floors sounded without avail. Thereafter Mr. Bunkle, awaiting patiently expectant, would conduct the unsuccessful search-party over the ‘Market Cross Inn’; would himself show them all manner of possible hiding-places as: dark corners, deep cupboards, hidden recesses all more or less dusty and cobwebby; he was, indeed, never too busy to assist officer, sergeant or private in their floor and wall-tapping operations, and would suggest for their further consideration an infinity of likely and unlikely places as his barns, stables, lofts and outhouses, his corn-bins, even his hen-roost and dog-kennel; until officer, sergeant and private, very dusty, very hot and ever and always thirstily unsuccessful, would end their labours in parlour and tap-room and, having nobly refreshed themselves, would fall in and march away, conscious of having performed their duty like men. At which times the weatherbeaten old Cross, wise with years, might have winked knowing eye had it possessed one, as did Mr. Bunkle upon a certain evening in the chaste seclusion of the five-doored room. “Are they gone, Peter man?” inquired Sir Hector. “Certain sure, indeed, sir, an’ arl on ’em quite as ’appy as usual.” “This being their second visit within the week?” inquired Sir John, busied with pencil and memorandum. “It be, sir!” nodded Mr. Bunkle, slicing a lemon. “They sojers be ’ard-workin’ lads, sure-lye! This be the fourth time they’ve turned that ’ay for me as I’ve got a-laying in the old barn—which be good for the ’ay an’ doan’t do them no ’arm. An’ seekin’ an’ searchin’ for some one as be never found seems a tur’ble thirsty business—which be likewise good for me!”