“Always!” nodded the painter, with sudden smile. “’Tis a little irregular, mayhap, but ’tis more sport to myself and fairer to the cony. If I miss, which is seldom, my cony is unharmed; when I hit, which I generally do, my cony is swiftly and very completely dead.... You are a stranger hereabouts, I think, sir?” “Extremely!” answered Sir John. “Aye, to be sure,” nodded the painter, smiling grimly. “Folk in these parts don’t take kindly to new faces——” “Being all staunch believers in—free trade.... ‘True-believers’?” suggested Sir John. “Aha, you’ve heard o’ that elusive craft, then?” inquired the painter, with a keen glance. “And sailed aboard her a week ago!” nodded Sir John. “What—the trip they crippled the _Seahorse_? Were this known ’twould make you at home wi’ all the Down folk hereabouts. For, egad, sir, we’re all smugglers, more or less, and are, on the whole, a very orderly, peaceable community—with the exception of that damned scoundrel, my Lord Sayle, whose life is a scandal in every way.” “I’ve heard of him, sir; he is said to be a dangerous fellow—an inveterate duellist?” said Sir John. “Aye, as notorious as Dering of Dering, whose empty house stands in the valley yonder. ’Twould be a blessing to the world in general if these two fine gentlemen could meet and exterminate each other; they have cumbered the earth too long—especially my Lord Sayle, one o’ your merciless rake-hells ... a very masterful libertine of whom I’ve heard such shameful tales—faugh!” and the painter spat in sheer disgust. “And is my lord a smuggler also?” “Why, at first he winked at ‘the trade’ and took many a bale and cask as a bribe, but later he demanded a percentage on every cargo, and, being refused, promptly ratted and set the law in motion, with the result that there’s been wild doings hereabouts o’ late and may be wilder yet. The excise officers will find theirs a hard task, for, as I say, we’re all ‘in it’ more or less. I’ve drank many a glass of right Nantzy, and even Parson Hartop, godly soul, has smoked tobacco that hath paid no more duty than the laces on my daughter’s petticoat. Are ye travelling far, sir?” “To High Dering.” “Ah, ’tis a village over yonder!” said the painter, with a jerk of his head. “’Tis a village, sir, that labours under a blight, a disease, a very effective curse.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Sir John, a little startled. “Yes, sir. The name of this particular disease is Dering—Sir John Dering.” “Ah,” sighed Sir John, “I have heard of him also——” “And little to his good, I’ll warrant!” quoth the painter. “Dering of Dering is the biggest landlord in these parts—and the worst.” “How so, sir?”