England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Wessex (England) -- Fiction
The village was already astir. Several of the carriers had heard the
well-known tramp of Latimer’s horse while they were undressing in the
dark that night, and had already communicated with each other and
Owlett on the subject. The only doubt seemed to be about the safety of
those tubs which had been left under the church gallery-stairs, and
after a short discussion at the corner of the mill, it was agreed that
these should be removed before it got lighter, and hidden in the middle
of a double hedge bordering the adjoining field. However, before
anything could be carried into effect, the footsteps of many men were
heard coming down the lane from the highway.
‘Damn it, here they be,’ said Owlett, who, having already drawn the
hatch and started his mill for the day, stood stolidly at the mill-door
covered with flour, as if the interest of his whole soul was bound up
in the shaking walls around him.
The two or three with whom he had been talking dispersed to their usual
work, and when the excise officers, and the formidable body of men they
had hired, reached the village cross, between the mill and Mrs.
Newberry’s house, the village wore the natural aspect of a place
beginning its morning labours.
‘Now,’ said Latimer to his associates, who numbered thirteen men in
all, ‘what I know is that the things are somewhere in this here place.
We have got the day before us, and ’tis hard if we can’t light upon ’em
and get ’em to Budmouth Custom-house before night. First we will try
the fuel-houses, and then we’ll work our way into the chimmers, and
then to the ricks and stables, and so creep round. You have nothing but
your noses to guide ye, mind, so use ’em to-day if you never did in
your lives before.’
Then the search began. Owlett, during the early part, watched from his
mill-window, Lizzy from the door of her house, with the greatest
self-possession. A farmer down below, who also had a share in the run,
rode about with one eye on his fields and the other on Latimer and his
myrmidons, prepared to put them off the scent if he should be asked a
question. Stockdale, who was no smuggler at all, felt more anxiety than
the worst of them, and went about his studies with a heavy heart,
coming frequently to the door to ask Lizzy some question or other on
the consequences to her of the tubs being found.
‘The consequences,’ she said quietly, ‘are simply that I shall lose
’em. As I have none in the house or garden, they can’t touch me
personally.’
‘But you have some in the orchard?’
‘Owlett rents that of me, and he lends it to others. So it will be hard
to say who put any tubs there if they should be found.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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