“Not _my_ smugglers, sir,” she said, “begging _your_ pardon. Faults there may be in my pronounciation; but ’awking and spitting in his langwidge was never yet, so far as I know, laid to the charge of a Londoner.” “My dear soul!” began Uncle Jenico. But she interrupted him-- “No, sir; nor to hend the names of his towns with a hoath, which it is not permitted to a lady’s lips to pollute themselves with huttering.” “O, really, Mrs. Puddephatt, I don’t understand!” said my uncle in despair. “I dare say not, sir,” went on the inexorable female. “But you must excuse me if I draw the line at Hamster and Rotter.” “O!” said Uncle Jenico, gathering light through the gloom. “You mean to imply that these smugglers were Dutchmen?” She condescended to smile a little, and, pursing her lips, nodded at him with a very stiff neck. “Bein’, you see, a Londoner yourself, sir, to which a nod is as good as a wink. It was Dutchmen what landed and stowed the stuff, and Dunberry what distributed of it. They howned to no connection with one another, and worked apart, which was their safety. Dunberry, bless you, would be dreaming in their beds that hinnercent, while ’Olland would be stuffing of the ’ill with contraband. Honly that Rampick was the master sperrit and go-between; and now you knows the truth about ’im.” We both stared at her breathless. “Then,” said my uncle at last, “the unfortunate creatures caught up there, if caught they were----” “Made no widders in Dunberry, sir,” she put in decisively. “God bless me!” said Uncle Jenico, much agitated. “Then Rampick----” He turned to me. “Don’t bait the man, Dick,” he said. “Remember, whoever’s to blame for it, he’s half crazed by his misfortunes; and small wonder, when some of us find it difficult to keep our heads in prosperity. Why, dear, dear! It isn’t the part of luck to throw stones, and certainly not at a dog in a trap. It’s like enough the poor creature’s dangerous. I dare say _I_ should be if things had gone against me. Don’t bait him, Dick. Give him a wide berth.” He had always been a little nervous about this fellow and our attitude towards him. His appeal was, however, superfluous. The ex-smuggler was not attractive; and Harry and I were certainly never the first to invite collision with him. For, what with blight and rum and sanctimony--which last, from being assumed for a disguise, had become a half-demoniac possession in him--he was little better at this day than a smouldering madman. Nevertheless, I tried loyally henceforth to emulate Uncle Jenico’s better Christianity by making allowances for the man because of his provocation. After all, calumny could visit him with no more formidable charge than that of having been a successful smuggler--a negative indictment even in these days. And perhaps, the main impeachment admitted, Mrs. Puddephatt’s cockney perspicacity was not so deadly a detective as she supposed.