“Tuk you--_fur_ him, I did. ’Twas in the days--afore the--’arthquake. We had our store--_where_ you know, in the underground vaults of th’ old abbey. Over above, in the hopen, was a knot of arches--running together, like the bow ribs of a ship; and--set in the pavement under--_in_ a dark corner behind ruins, were a stone moving _on_ a pivot--what let down him--as knew the trick--_by_ a flight of steps, to the crypts. The powder--was kep’ handy--just below; and beyond--in th’ old cellars running seaward--till they bruk off--in a choke of ruin, behind the cliff face--lay the tea _and_ brandy. “At that time we was a good deal chafed--_as_ one might call it. What with a revenue cutter--and a sloop of war to back it--our last run had been a run _fur_ life--and--at the end it were touch and go to get--the stuff housed. And in the thick, _of_ the excitement, who should be sprung--upon us--as we thought, _but_ a spy. He come from nowhere--it seemed. He was just up there one day poking--_and_ prying--among the ruins--and I see him. For hours he went--sniffing round--while I watched secret. He squinted, and he tapped, and he went--in and out--cautious; and sometimes, he’d stamp _on_ the ground, and listen--_fur_ the holler echer--with his ear down like a dog. Then--by-and-by--off he went, _on_ tiptoe, and I follered, tracken en--_to_ the Flask. They could tell me nothing--about en there; save _as_ he’d walked over--by his own statement--from Yokestone. The thing looked as black _as_ hell; and what we done--we done--in justice to ourselves as we thought--because we was druv, _to_ it. I had no hand _in_ what follered. I wouldn’t have: I never--could abide--the sight of death.