MASTER FRANCIS MYDDLETON leaned back in his chair and gently stuffed a wad of coarse Virginia into the slightly blackened bowl of his stubby clay pipe, and lifted his gouty foot on to one of the bronzed firedogs which ornamented his spacious hearth, and then after pulling once or twice at the short stem, he took out a bundle of letters from one of his capacious pockets and began to read them. They were from his son who held a fairly responsible place at the Court of His Gracious Majesty King Charles II, and from time to time a low wheezing chuckle broke from the old man’s lips and he coughed and spat, the tears of laughter starting to his eyes as he read.

“The sly devil,” he muttered, laughing, “bribed her serving-wench with a kiss, did he?”

“Oh! dearie, dearie me—Good King Jamie was more particular. What a thing it is to be young and to have a king to serve,” and he laughed again, this time quite loudly.

A female voice called shrilly from the room above:

“What’s ailing you, Francis?”

Master Myddleton put the letters hastily into his pocket.

“’Tis naught, Eliza, my foot doth trouble me somewhat.”

“Marry,” came the high, strident voice from the other room, “’tis strange that a gouty foot should make you laugh like a moon-struck lunatic.”

Master Myddleton made no reply, and after a moment’s pause the voice went on again:

“’Tis a wonder you can laugh when we have a man coming to take the very bread out of our mouths. You should be praying the Lord to succour your wife and daughter, not laughing yourself daft by the fireside.”

The old man sighed and shook the ashes from his pipe and began slowly to refill it.

“What’s o’clock?” he called out after a minute or so’s silence.

“Half after eight; he should be here by now if the river ain’t high over the bridle path at Tenpenny Heath.”

“Ay,” said Master Myddleton reflectively.

There was the sound of a chair being pushed back and of heavy steps on the stairs, and Mistress Eliza Myddleton entered the dining room where her husband sat.

She was a big fair woman who still preserved a remnant of the great beauty which had once been hers, but as she often told her neighbours when she was in a confidential mood, what with having a rapscallion stepson and a pretty daughter to look after, an excise man for a husband, and also being a staunch, God-fearing woman and a puritan at that, lines and wrinkles would come and they had—as indeed any one might note for himself.

Now as she came into the room, her thin face pale with worry, Francis looked at her, and old villain that he was, he wondered why he had ever married her.

“What are you going to say to him?” began the lady, planting herself before him, her bony arms akimbo.

Master Francis shrugged his shoulders.

“Say?” he said. “Why, naught!”

Mistress Eliza threw her hands above her head in a gesture of despair.

“You would,” she said. “I don’t believe you realize the state we are in. I don’t believe you care if your wife and child are thrown into the streets. I don’t believe you could say a word to save yourself hanging. In God’s truth, I don’t believe you have your wits about you, Master Myddleton.”

Francis sat still puffing at his pipe and his wife went on:

“Had you only done your duty, and gone out after the Mersea smugglers, I might be a fine lady this day, or at least——”

“A widow!” put in Francis, without removing the pipe from his mouth.

“Oh!” Mistress Eliza gasped. “For shame, Master Myddleton, are you a coward?”

“No more ’an others, but, Lord, Eliza, you wouldn’t have me trapesing about i’ the dusk hunting rum kegs?”

Francis took the pipe from his mouth and looked at his wife, a quizzical expression in his little gray eyes.

“’Tis what you’re paid for,” said Mistress Myddleton, lifting her eyes to the low-raftered ceiling.

Master Myddleton coughed explosively, and his face grew red with anger.

“God’s body! Isn’t that just like a woman,” he shouted, dashing his hand so violently on the arm of his chair that his pipe flew into shivers, whereupon he swore an oath which made his wife shudder. “Just like a woman sweet as honey till aught goes wrong,” he continued, getting more and more angry at every word. “Did you ever talk of hunting smugglers before the Mayor of Colchester must needs appoint an assistant to me? Lord! woman, you drink smuggled tea every day of your life so as to be i’ the fashion—don’t talk to me!”

“It’s very well for you to call this Thomas Playle an assistant, Master Myddleton,” observed his wife with asperity. “’Tis you are to be his assistant, I’m thinking. That will be a nice thing for the neighbours to hear—now if only our Matilda and he could——”

Francis Myddleton fairly roared with fury.

“Peace with ye, designing woman,” he shouted. “Will I have my only daughter disposed of before my eyes? Unfeeling mother! Elizabeth, I am amazed at ye.”

Mistress Myddleton gulped with indignation.

“Francis, I am surprised at you. I disposing of your daughter! Oh, you scandalous man! Why ever was I married to such a lump of lying perfidy?”

“God knows!” said Master Myddleton bitterly.

Mistress Elizabeth’s answering outbreak was checked by the sound of horses’ hoofs in the cobbled yard outside.

“There he is—God help us,” she had time to whisper, and then composing her features into an amiable smile went out to meet their unwelcome guest.

Master Myddleton sat looking down at the fragments of his pipe: then he felt in his pocket and drew out a twist of tobacco which he smelt and rolled lovingly round his fingers.

He sighed.

“Drat women and work,” he said to the roaring fire which blazed, crackled, and spat as though it quite agreed with him.

Master Thomas Playle sprang out of his saddle and threw his bridle rein to the grinning ostler who ran out to meet him, and then marched up to the front door and pulled the bell sharply.

Mistress Myddleton was before him in an instant and so overwhelmed him with welcome and motherly concern for his wet, muddy condition that he had nothing to say for himself for a minute or so.

The candlelight in the stone-flagged hall showed the newcomer to be a tall, rather handsome man, some seven and twenty years of age.

Mistress Myddleton regarded him with approval and mentally summed up her daughter Matilda’s attractive qualities: the result seemed to please her, for she smiled and conducted him to the dining room.

“My husband hath a troubled foot,” she was at some pains to explain, “and prays you to pardon him for not being on the steps to meet you.”

Playle bowed coldly and followed his voluble hostess in silence.

Master Myddleton looked up casually as they entered, and after returning the younger man’s bow without rising he bade his wife hasten the supper, and, after waiting until she was out of the room, motioned his guest to a comfortable chair on the opposite side of the hearth.

“His worship, the Mayor and his——” began the young man sententiously as he sat down and stretched out his high mud-caked boots to the friendly fire.

Master Myddleton waved his hand.

“After we have eaten, I pray you. The morning will do,” he said. “Until then I would like to speak of this heinous crime of smuggling as carried on in this town and on the Island over the Fleet.”

Playle felt disquieted. Here he was in this old gentleman’s house, drying himself at his fire and making himself generally comfortable. How could he boldly announce that these affairs would be his care in future, and that Master Myddleton need trouble himself no further? He decided to put it off till supper was over. After all, he considered the old man must know something of use to him in his future work.

Master Playle was a very conscientious young man and one who had ambitions. He had fought for this appointment and meant to show his ability. He had served for a time in one of His Majesty’s own regiments and still held a commission.

Master Myddleton began to speak.

“We have a very difficult task before us, Master Playle,” he began in the deep pompous voice which he used on all official occasions. “I think I can truthfully say that on no other part of the coast is King Charles’ law—God bless him—more persistently and I might almost say courageously violated.”

He paused, and his little gray eyes sought a flicker of surprise on the young man’s face, but they were disappointed. Playle’s easy smile still played round his thin lips as he listened with polite attention.

Master Myddleton began again.

“With such violent, all-daring, cut-throat gang against me, I have—er—yes, to be plain with you, Master Playle—I have—er—felt it unwise—not to say foolhardy—to take more than preliminary measures against these unruly vagabonds until I received assistance from headquarters.”

Playle’s smile deepened and Francis, looking up suddenly, saw it. Instantly his manner changed.

“Ah, I see you know something of their customs, Master Playle,” he said, laughing wheezily.

Playle looked up a little disconcerted, but he laughed with the old man and nodded his head.

“I can see I can be quite plain with you,” went on Francis, his eyes scanning the other’s face.

Playle was a simple, straightforward soldier, and he felt rather at a disadvantage with this quick-witted old villain with the gouty foot. However, he deemed it prudent to make some remark.

“Oh, yes, of a certainty, of a certainty!” he said as intelligently as possible. “I am determined to abolish this illegal trading.”

Master Myddleton sighed; he began to see a little more clearly how the land lay.

“Very right, an excellent spirit in youth,” he said heartily. “Go in and conquer—sweep all before you. That’s how I like to hear young people talk. It is for the old with our gouty feet and long experience to sit at home and think out campaigns, and for you, the young and healthful in body, to carry them out gloriously.”

He slapped his knee in applause at his own words, and then, as the young man said nothing, but sat still smiling into the fire, he continued, his voice resuming the pompous note.

“But believe me, you have a difficult task, as I said before—a difficult task indeed. Now let me advise you first to attack the smuggling here on the mainland. Had you half a troop of infantry it would be madness to attempt to quieten Mersea Island.”

Playle sat up and became interested.

“The Island,” he said. “Yes, I’ve heard of the smuggling there; the block-house there was well-guarded in the war, I know.”

Master Myddleton waved him silent, and continued to talk. “There are two principal smuggling vessels,” he said casually. “The first, The Dark Blood, belongs to a man called de Witt, and then the Coldlight, which belongs to a mysterious Spaniard.”

Young Playle gasped. That the old man should know all this and yet take no measures to stop it amazed him, and his youthful imagination began to play round his old ambitions until he saw himself lord of the customs and His Majesty’s right-hand man.

“Why not stop all vessels that enter the river?” he said.

“I had thought of it—I had thought of it,” said Myddleton, wagging his head sagely.

“Well, I’m going to do it,” replied Playle quickly.

Old Francis laughed deprecatingly and was about to answer him when Mistress Eliza, her daughter, a tall girl fair like her mother and buxomly beautiful, with their little maid, Betsey, entered with the supper.

During the meal, Mistress Eliza talked almost incessantly, and her husband filled up the few pauses in her streams of conversation with lurid stories of the smugglers’ cruelty. Once after a more vivid one than usual, Mistress Matilda looked archly at the young soldier.

“If only it could be stopped!” she said, while her mother made some remark about poor little Matty’s childishness.

Thomas Playle looked up from the lump of boiled fish he was eating.

“It shall be stopped, mistress,” he said. “Such flagrant crime is a disgrace to the glorious court of His Gracious Majesty.”

While Francis felt the bundle of letters in his pocket and grinned wickedly to himself.

“You have some men in your pay and arms for them, I suppose, Master Myddleton?” observed Playle a little later on in the evening.

“About five,” said Francis, and then, noting the other’s surprise, he added: “But some twenty more trustworthy men can be called out at a moment’s notice, if you find it necessary.”

Playle could hardly repress a smile of pleasure; life seemed suddenly to have opened up to him. Twenty-five men at his orders, a gang of ferocious smugglers to attack, and a pretty girl to stand by and admire at the proper time. His smile broadened.

His ambitions flew away with him and he sat staring at his plate, his brown eyes twinkling with pleasure, until Mistress Myddleton had to touch him on the shoulder and give him a candle, before he realized that Betsey, the little maid, waited to show him his room.

Once in their room Mistress Eliza and her husband argued over the situation until both were exhausted.

“He’s a handsome man, anyway,” said the lady at last, as she brushed her little wisp of gray-yellow hair before the oval mirror. “I wonder if Matilda——?”

Francis, who was already tucked in his side of the huge four-poster bed, growled through the curtains, and Mistress Eliza bit her lip.

“He’ll make a difference to the price of tea hereabouts, I’ll warrant,” she said, after a minute’s silence, as she blew out the candles and opened the casement.

Francis grunted.

“Methinks he’ll be a deal of nuisance to the trade,” he said bitterly. “No more cheap tabac—God help us.”

Mistress Eliza echoed his sigh, and they settled themselves to sleep.