On a frosty night, when George III was King, certain men, for the most part familiar customers, sat in the bar of the “Golden Anchor,” Daleham; and amongst them appeared that welcome addition to the usual throng: a stranger. For his benefit old tales were told anew and ancient memories ransacked; because this West country fishing village enjoyed rich encrustation of legend and romance, and boasted a roll call of great names and great deeds. Here dwelt the spirits of bygone free-traders, visible by night in the theatre of their lawless enterprises; and here even more notable stories, touching more notable phantoms, might also be gleaned from ancient intelligencers at the time of evening drinking.

The newcomer listened grimly to matters now much exercising Daleham. He was a hard-faced man with a blue chin and black eyes, whose short, double-breasted jacket, wide breeches, glazed hat and pigtail marked a seafarer.“As for ghostes,” he said, “can’t swear I’ve ever seed one, but no sailor-man, as have witnessed the Lord’s wonders in the deep, would dare to doubt ’em.”

“Just picture a whole throng, my dear!”

John Cramphorn spoke. He was an ancient fisher, and his face might have stood for the Apostle Peter’s; but it quite gave the lie to his character, for this venerable man was hand in glove with the smugglers, had himself been a free-trader of renown, and now very gladly placed his wit and experience at the command of the younger generation. No word was ever whispered against him openly, and yet the rumour ran that Johnny had his share of every cargo successfully run upon these coasts, and that he was the guiding spirit ashore, while “Merry Jonathan,” or Jonathan Godbeer of Daleham, captained on the water that obscure body known as the Daleham free-traders.

With such a sailor as Jonathan afloat and such a wise-head as Mr. Cramphorn at home, the local smugglers earned a measure of fame that reached even to the Revenue. Indeed, at the moment of this story’s opening, the little fishing village, with uneasy pride, was aware that a Preventive Officer had been appointed for its especial chastisement and control; but none feared the issue. Every woman and child at Daleham knew that it would task men of uncommon metal with hard heads and thick skulls to lay their local champions by the heels.

“Ess,” said the white-bearded Cramphorn, “ghostes of men an’ ghostes of hosses tu. Ban’t many parishes as can shaw ’e such a brave turnout of holy phantoms, I lay. You might have seed that ruin in the fir trees ’pon top of the cliff as you comed down the hill p’raps? Wheer the fishermen’s gardens be. Well, ’twas a famous mansion in the old days, though now sinked to a mere landmark for mackerel boats. But the Stapledons lived theer in times agone, an’ lorded it awver all the land so far as Dartymouth, ’tis thought. Of course they died like theer neighbours, an’ many a brave funeral passed out-along wheer I grow my bit of kale to-day. Yet no account taken till theer comed the terrible business of Lady Emma Stapledon—poor soul. Her was ordered by her cold-hearted faither to marry a Lunnon man for his money—a gay young youth of gert renown, an’ as big a rip as ever you see, an’ a very evil character, but thousands of pounds in the bank to soften people’s minds. Her wouldn’t take him, however, an’ peaked an’ pined, till at last—two nights afore the marriage-day—her went out alone along that dangerous edge of cliff what be named the Devil’s Tight-rope. In charity us’ll say the poor maiden’s foot slipped, though if it did, why for should her funeral walk ever since when January comes round? Anyway it shows her had Christian burial no doubt, an’ the funeral can be seen evermore—hosses an’ men, hearse an’ coffin. Every moony night in January it may be marked stealin’ like a fog awver the tilth by the old road from the ruined gates; an’ to see it only axes a pinch of faith in the beholder. I’ve watched it scores o’ dozens o’ times—all so black as sin an’ silent as the grave. My sweat falled like rain fust time I seed it, but I minded how the Lord looks arter His awn. Of course an honest, church-going man’s out o’ the reach o’ ghostes.”

Mr. Cramphorn stopped and buried his beautiful Roman nose in some rum and water. Then Mrs. Pearn, mistress of the “Golden Anchor,” mended the fire, and a man, sitting in the ingle, asked a question.

“Where’s Jenifer to? ’Tis late for her to be out alone.”

The old woman answered:—

“Gone up the hill for green stuff. Her laughs at all you silly men. I told her how ’twas the time for Lady Emma’s death-coach; but her said so long as they didn’t want her to get in an’ sit along wi’ she, her’d not mind no death-coaches, nor ghostes neither.”

“’Tis very unseemly for a maid to talk so,” declared the stranger, gravely. “Them as flout spirits often have to pay an ugly reckoning.”

Others were also of this mind and Mr. Cramphorn gave instances.

“My stars! You’m makin’ me cream with fear, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Pearn, after supping full on their horrid recollections; “best to go up the hill, Jonathan Godbeer, an’ find the wench. ’Tis your work, seeing you’m tokened to her.”

The stranger started and cast a sharp glance where sat the man addressed. Merry Jonathan was a tall and square-built sailor with a curly head and an eye that looked all people squarely in the face. A crisp beard served to hide his true expression, and the cloak of a smile, usually to be found upon his lips, concealed the tremendous determination of his countenance. Indeed he habitually hid behind a mask of loud and somewhat senseless laughter. But those who served him at his secret work and in times of peril, knew a different Jonathan, not to be described as “Merry.” Now the man rose and grinned at the stranger amiably until his grey eyes were quite lost in rays of crinkled skin. He out-stared the other seafarer, as he made it a rule to out-stare all men; then he prepared to obey his future mother-in-law.

“Mustn’t let my sweetheart be drove daft by—” he began, when the inn door opened and a girl, with her hair fallen down her back and a terrified white face, appeared and almost dropped into Godbeer’s arms. “Gude powers! What’s the matter, my dear maid?” he cried. “Who’ve hurt ’e? Who’ve dared? Tell your Jonathan an’ he’ll smash the man like eggshells—if ’tis a man.”

Jenifer clung to him hysterically and her teeth chattered. They took her to the fire and her mother brought a tumbler of spirits and water at Mr. Cramphorn’s direction.

“Oh my God, I knawed how ’twould be,” wailed the old woman. “Her’ve seed what her didn’t ought, an’ now her’ll suffer for it!”

Jenifer was on her lover’s lap by the fire and tears at last came to her eyes. Then she wept bitterly and found her tongue.

“Put your arm around me,” she said; “close—close—Jonathan. I’ve seed it—Lady Emma’s death-coach—creeping awver the frozen ground up-along. It passed wi’in ten yards of where I was cutting cabbages, an’ never such cold I felt. It have got to my heart an’ I’ll die—I knaw it.”

“You might have been mistook, young woman,” said the blue-muzzled man, civilly; but she shook her head.

“A gert hearse wi’ feathers an’ a tall man in front, an’ four hosses all blacker’n the fir-wood they comed from. An’ the moonlight shone through ’em where they moved away to the churchyard; an’ I fainted, I reckon, then come to an’ sped away afore they returned.”

“They’d have been there again in an hour or two,” declared old Cramphorn. “That’s the way of it. Ten o’clock or so they sets out, an’ back they come by midnight or thereabouts.”

Then the stranger rose to retire, but before doing so he declared his identity.

“I may tell you, neighbours, that I be the Preventive Officer sent to work along with the cutter from Dartmouth. My name be Robert Bluett, an’ I’m an old man-o’-war’s man an’ a West countryman likewise. An’ I look to every honest chap amongst ’e to help me in the King’s name against lawbreakers. So all’s said.”

A murmur ran through the company.

“Question is what be honest an’ what ban’t. Things ban’t dishonest ’cause Parliament says so,” growled a long-faced, sour man. “Free tradin’s the right answer to wrongful laws, an’ ’tis for them up-along to mend Justice, not rob us.”

Jonathan Godbeer, however, stoutly applauded Mr. Bluett.

“I be just a simple fisherman myself,” he said; “but what I can do against they French rascals I will do. You may count upon me.”

Mr. Bluett regarded Johnny Cramphorn and saw that the patriarch’s eyes were fixed on Godbeer and full of amazement.

“You to say that!” he murmured, “you—when us all knows—but ban’t no business of mine, thank the Lord. At least you may count upon an old man to stand by the King and his lawful laws, same as I always have and always will so long as I be spared.”

Riotous laughter greeted these noble sentiments, and Bluett, vaguely aware that the company laughed as much with the ancient as at him, departed to bed. He was staying at the “Golden Anchor” until his lodgment at Daleham should be ready for him.

Great confusion, shouting and swearing kept Robert Bluett wakeful for some time, and next morning he learned the reason of it. As he walked early upon the quay before breakfast, tried to master the intricate coast-line at a glance and longed to be afloat that he might get a wider and juster view of the red and honeycombed cliffs, a woebegone figure approached him—a bent and hobbling creature that crawled on two sticks, wore a three-cornered hat and had his right eye concealed by a big black patch. Only the flowing beard of Johnny Cramphorn proclaimed him.

“God save you, Master Bluett, or I should say ‘Cap’n Bluett,’” he began. “The very man I wanted for to see.”

“Who’s been clawing you?” asked the Excise Officer.

“Who but the Dowl’s own anointed? You heard the tantara in the tap-room? Well, ’twas upon an aged piece like me they varmints falled like heathen wolves. Look here!”

He lifted his patch and showed a pale blue eye set in a bruise as black as ink. Thus seen it suggested a jackdaw’s.

“Jonathan Godbeer’s hand done that—the Lord judge un! Wi’ his bullock’s fist he knocked me down, ’cause I withstood un to his face, like the prophet withstood David.”

“Ban’t no quarrel of mine,” said Mr. Bluett, “though if all I hear be true, me an’ Godbeer may fall out afore the world’s much older.”

“Ess—if you’m honest, you’ll fall out wi’ him. ’Twas honesty brought me these cruel bruises. When you’d gone, I rose in my wrath an’ axed un how he dared to lie to you so open; then he smote me.”

Mr. Bluett’s natural probity here led him into unwisdom.

“To be plain,” he said, “I haven’t heard no very good account of you neither.”

“Ah, ’tis so hard to get away from one’s sins! I’ll be honest, Cap’n, same as you be,” answered Mr. Cramphorn. “I doan’t deny but I’ve been a free-trader in my time, though ’twas little enough ever I made by it but a score on the wrong side of the Book o’ Life. But I’ve long been weary of ill-doing and be set ’pon the right road this many years, as Parson Yates will tell ’e. ’Twas for the cause of right I got these blows—same as Paul his stripes—an’ though I’ve been that man’s friend in time past, now I’m gwaine to take vengeance against un, an’ next time I hears tell of his games, you’ll be the fust to know it.”

“That will suit me very well,” answered Bluett.

“An’ I ax you to back me up an’ protect me henceforth in the King’s name,” continued Johnny. “To think of a man as would wallop an old blid like me! No better’n a murderer—there he is now! Doan’t you go away from me till he’ve passed us by.”

Jonathan Godbeer walked along the quay to the boats. He scowled at old Cramphorn and touched his hat to the officer.

“Marnin’, sir! I see thicky old rat have got ’e by the ear. I thrashed un last night, ancient though he be, for calling me a smuggler afore the company; an’ I’ll thrash un every time he dares to do the like. Take care how you put your trust in him, for the Faither of Lies be a fule to that man. He never done nobody a gude turn in’s life; though he’ll get a gude turn yet hisself when the cart goes from under him an’ leaves him dancin’ ’pon a rope. I warn ’e against un for all his white beard!”

Jonathan grinned at his own prophecy and departed; Cramphorn shook his fist and chattered curses; and Mr. Bluett went upon this way. He was puzzled but not ill-pleased.

“When thieves fall out, honest men come by theer own,” he reflected, and returned to breakfast.

Jenifer Pearn waited upon him at his meal and took occasion to give Mr. Bluett yet another version of the brawl that had troubled his slumbers over night; but as she loved Merry Jonathan, her story redounded little to the smuggler’s discredit.

“They all want to be your friends,” she explained; “but, except my Jonathan, theer ban’t a pin to choose among ’em. He’m honest as daylight.”

Mr. Bluett thereupon changed the subject and trusted that Jenifer was none the worse for her fright. The girl had a dark, keen face, was built generously and evidently enjoyed unusual physical strength for a woman. Yet the old sailor recollected that she had been no more than a pleasant armful for her future husband.

“I be well again,” she said, “yet I wish I hadn’t seen no such dreadful contrivance, I’m sure. ’Tis a very sad thing, an’ mother sez how Parson Yates did ought to be axed to faace they phantoms in the name of the Lord wi’ a bell, a book an’ a cannel, ’cordin’ to the right an’ holy way in such matters. But Gran’faither Newte an’ Toby Pearn, my great-uncle, an’ a gude few other auld parties say that Lady Emma’s funeral be the chiefest glory of Daleham an’ ’twould be a thousand pities to go an’ lay it wi’ a bit of parson’s work.”

The officer was interested.

“For my part,” he said, “I think if the poor soul killed herself two hundred years ago, ’tis time her was laid peaceful an’ reg’lar as by law appointed. ’Tis all us can do for ghostes; to lay ’em; an’ even then it axes a clergyman. An’ the holiest have got to mind theer p’s an’ q’s, for, make a mistake, an’ so like as not they’m tored to pieces for their trouble.”

“I’d rather not hear tell no more about it,” answered Jenifer, shivering and looking uneasily about her. “But this I knaw; Parson Yates ban’t the man for the job—so meek as Moses he be, an’ would run from a goose, let alone a ghostey.”

“If ’tis proved his duty, he’ve got to faace it, however,—same as all of us has got to faace our duty,” declared Mr. Bluett.

CHAPTER III

A week elapsed and the tragic dispute between Merry Jonathan and his ancient ally grew into a nine days’ wonder. That the new-come representative of law was responsible for their quarrel none doubted, for Mr. Bluett had arrived in an hour not auspicious from the smugglers’ standpoint. He was at Daleham a fortnight earlier than most people expected him, and the presence of himself and his mates had threatened directly to interfere with greater matters than he guessed. Yet the secret of a cargo, its arrival nigh Daleham and the hour and place, now came frankly into Robert Bluett’s keeping, since old Cramphorn—his friendship turned to gall under Godbeer’s heavy hands—for once followed the unfamiliar paths of rectitude. So, at least, he declared to the Exciseman, though even Mr. Bluett, whose mind was cast in simple mould, perceived that a private hatred and a private grudge were responsible for the patriarch’s treachery, rather than any desire to do right. It was mention of his former partner that always stung old Johnny into passion, made his beard shake and his voice go shrill and cracked.“A mighty haul of French fishes—brandy—baccy—lace an’ such like; an’ now I’m a changed man an’ shall take no part,” he explained to his new friend.

“Theer’s foreign fal-lals ’bout that young woman to the inn,” said Mr. Bluett. “Stuff that never comed honest about her neck, I’ll swear.”

“His gift. They’m tokened, though God send you’ll lay un by the heels an’ show her the mistake she’m makin’ in time. An’ now listen, for I doan’t want to be seen with you in public no more. When I quarrelled with the man,—Godbeer,—I knowed he’d change the appointed date; an’ sure enough he did so. But theer’s wan hand of his crew—no call to name names—who be on my side; an’ he’ve told me the real date. Which that is Wednesday next, if this here northeast wind holds.”

“That’s the day I be taking my men to Dartmouth.”

“D’you think Merry Jonathan doan’t know that? He knows everything. He knows I be talkin’ to ’e now; but he doan’t know what I’ve told ’e; and he’d be ravin’ mad if he did.”

“Us mustn’t go to Dartmouth then.”

“No fay! But you must let him think you have. You must start by day an’ get back after dusk an’ lie by the cliff roads—some of your chaps by each; for theer ban’t no other ways up. An’ the Dartymouth cutter must slip out the moment after dimpsy light; an’ wi’ any luck you’ll take the Frenchman tu. Of course Wednesday be the day Cap’n Wade always sails west wi’ the cutter. He’m such a man of method that the smugglers know to a mile wheer the fool be, so reg’lar as they know moon an’ tides.”

“I’ll change all that,” declared Bluett.

“An’ best begin Wednesday; an’ you must swear on your dying oath my name doan’t come out. For Jonathan would swing for me, so cheerful as a flea, if he heard I’d informed.”

The officer regarded Johnny with stern contempt.

“The dirty work of the world have got to be done; an’ your breed never dies,” he said; “you’re not nice, but you’re needful—like vultures an’ jackals as I’ve seed around foreign ports. No, I’ll not name you.”

“As to reward? Theer’s my friend tu, as have told me the secret. ’Tis right us should get our deserts for smashing that cowardly dog. An’ God, He knows how poor I be. But theer’ll be a thousand golden guineas in it for you, so like as not; an’ if you take the foreigner, her’ll be worth a Jew’s-eye, for she’s a butivul thing by all accounts, though if the cutter catches her ’twill be by stealth, not sailin’.”

“’Twould make a stir,” admitted the other, cautiously. Then a sudden wave of suspicion crossed his mind.

“If you’re lying to me, you’ll repent it,” he said.

“Judge by what I lose,” retorted the old man, almost tearfully. “To put this harvest into your hands is to rob my own pocket. Baccy an’ winter drinkin’—I give up all for the hate I bear against that man. But take my word or leave it.”

Old Cramphorn’s bitterness of expression and the lean fist raised and shaken at Merry Jonathan’s empty boat hard by, went far to convince Mr. Bluett. That day he hired a horse and rode over to Dartmouth and in the evening met his secret accomplice again among the usual crowd at the bar of the “Golden Anchor.” Jonathan Godbeer was not present, but the rest of the company now knew the officer by name and treated him with outward civility and respect.

The conversation ran on Lady Emma’s death-coach. Even Parson Yates had been awakened from his abstracted existence by the reports of this singular apparition, for many had seen it of late and not a few fearfully approached their pastor upon the subject. That evening, indeed, the folk awaited news of some definite decision from Daleham’s spiritual leader, because, as Jenifer Pearn told the Exciseman, though certain ancient celebrities had objected to interference with a vision so historical, others held it a scandal that any patrician maiden’s spirit should thus continue to revisit the scenes of her life and taking off. Greater matters occupied Robert Bluett’s mind, but, sailor-like, he loved a ghost, and his life had not changed the superstitious nature of him. He listened with the rest, therefore, while Johnny related what had passed between himself and the clergyman.

“’Twas hard to shake sense into the old gen’leman. He doan’t want to believe it, though theer’s his open Bible staring him in the face every day of his life. But a man’s reason be nought against the pull of conscience; so he’m gwaine up-along to see for hisself. Then, if the things do appear to his sight, he’ll go forth in the name of the Lord to quench ’em.”

“He’ll never do it—such a timorous man as him,” said Mrs. Pearn; but Cramphorn assured her that the deed was done.

“He’ve gone to-night. I started along with un. ‘Shall I come with ’e, your reverence?’ I axed him. An’ he said ‘No,’ though he’d have liked to say ‘Ess.’ ‘Who wants man’s aid if his hand be in his Master’s?’ he sez to me. ‘Not your reverence, that’s sartain,’ I sez to him. Then he went up-along and I comed in here.”

Conversation continued and then, some half an hour later, a little man in clerical costume, with tiny legs that shook beneath him, suddenly entered the inn. He was very pale and blinked at the blazing oil lamp above the bar.

“’Tis his reverence’s self!” cried Mrs. Pearn.

“No less, my good woman, no less. A glass of your best brandy, please. I—I—”

“You’m gallied—you’m likewise skeered. I see it in your worshipful manner of shaking below the knee. I wish to God you had let me go along with ’e. But, my stars! you must have comed down Red Hill properly quick, if so be you went to the top of un.”

“I did descend quickly, John Cramphorn. I have no hesitation in declaring that never have I come down that hill so fast before. The Lord looked to it that I dashed not my foot against a stone. And, furthermore, this apparition is no mere conceit of ignorance or bucolic fancy; I myself, my friends, have seen it; and I heartily wish that I had not done so.”

“Pass the glass to his reverence, Jenifer, will ’e; an’ get you out of the armchair, Toby, an’ let minister come by the fire. I’ve put in hot water an’ sugar an’ the brandy be—”

She stopped. All men knew the brandy of the “Golden Anchor,” but it was not considered good manners to criticise it.

Mr. Yates drank, then colour returned to his little grey face and he passed his glass for a second dose.

“I could discourse upon this theme at very considerable length,” he said; “but the matter calls for deeds rather than words, or perhaps I should say both.”

“No doubt, as a man of God, your duty do lie clear afore you, if I may say so respectful,” ventured Robert Bluett; and the pastor admitted that it was so.

“By the help of Heaven these unhappy beings, that here dwell midway between earth and heaven, must be laid to rest,” he said. “Thaumaturgy, or working of miracles, can only still subsist at the desire of Jehovah, and if He wills that I liberate these funereal spirits to their rest, I can do it, not otherwise.”

“I lay you’ll do it, such a holy man as you,” foretold Johnny Cramphorn, genially.

“But, for God’s love, don’t mess it up,” added Mr. Bluett, “’cause if you make any error, they’ll rend ’e to tatters.”

“If Heaven wills and my health permits, I go on Tuesday night in all the dignity and power of my calling,” declared Parson Yates; “and now I will thank you to see me home, such among you as journey on my way.”

A few men departed with their pastor; Cramphorn settled to his last pipe and glass beside the fire; and Robert Bluett went upon his nocturnal duties. For, since his arrival, things were mightily changed at Daleham; keen eyes never closed on sea or land; most perfect cordons had been established and a sure system extended far to east and west. It was admitted that with such parole of cliffs and coombs, such searching scrutiny by night and day of every dark lane, lonely road and seaward-facing cavern, that not so much as a runlet of spirits could swim unrecorded into Daleham or ride out of it.

How Merry Jonathan under these distracting circumstances could continue to be merry, his friends and neighbours wondered. Indeed, twice within a week he had brought back from the sea pollock and conger—his legitimate objects of pursuit at this season. But that Jonathan Godbeer should sell fish was a significant sign of the times, and already folks said that Mr. Cramphorn was avenged.

CHAPTER IV

Gentle snow fell through a grey night as a party of men and women marched up Red Hill upon the following Tuesday evening. An invisible moon made all this clear. Parson Yates led the way with his cassock hitched out of the snow and with a stout boy on either side of him. One lad bore a candle, and the other, a little bell.

“Butivul night for a holy deed, I’m sure,” said Mr. Cramphorn. Mrs. Pearn, Jenifer and Mr. Bluett walked beside him and a dozen villagers accompanied them. The matter, however, at their pastor’s desire had been kept as far as possible from the general ear.

“I hope as you’m lookin’ sharp to the roads an’ the quay an’ Smugglers’ Lane as usual,” whispered Johnny to Robert Bluett. “Some long tongue be sure to blab this business; an’ if the Frenchman’s laying off, they might signal her in to-night, ’stead of to-morrow.”

“Not so much as a sea-otter could go from sea to shore without one of my men would know it,” answered the other.

“Then a great load be off my mind, I assure ’e.”Red Hill above Daleham was a sandstone bluff that sprang up near three hundred feet abruptly from the sea, and, save at low tides, deep water always ran beneath. Upon its head a rough tonsure of wind-worn pine trees circled the grey ruins of Stapledon manor-house, and inland therefrom extended the fishermen’s gardens and stretched two roads. One of these ways led to Daleham Church and the country; the other was that up which Parson Yates and his company now climbed from the village.

“Here will we stand,” said the good man, “and should anything in the nature of a superhuman visitation occur, you must light your candle, Richard Trout, and you, Noah Collins, after I have lifted my voice the first time, must strike upon the bell thrice—for each Person of the Ever-blessed Trinity. And see no wax falls from the candle on to my book, boy.”

They drew up outside the belt of fir and all endured half an hour of misery, for the snow, though slight, persisted and the air and earth were bitter cold. Presently, however, the snow thinned to scattered flakes, then stopped; a star stole out and touched the white carpet with silver. Then came the beat of the church clock telling ten, and, as if in answer, a sigh ran through the woods, and gloomy figures moved beneath the trees.Silent as a dream and darker than night itself against the snow, a black pageant crept from the forest, and crossed the open land. One tall figure, above man’s common stature, moved in front and, following him, came horses that drew a plumed hearse, while certain footmen moved orderly behind. Then did Dick Trout, with shaking blue fingers, strike tinder and make a flame, and Noah Collins prepared to beat a triple tattoo upon his bell. Only Mr. Yates himself unhappily failed at the critical pinch.

“Give it ’em; give it to ’em, my dear soul, or they’ll be gone!” implored Mr. Cramphorn in frantic accents. But the little man had dropped his book from a numbed and shaking hand, and, by the time he had picked it up again, the ghostly funeral was sweeping along the church road, already half swallowed up by night.

“I lacked the power of speech,” stuttered Mr. Yates. “I cannot deny it—the spirit of fear came upon me and I dropped my book.”

“Give ’em a broadside coming back, your reverence—if ’tis true as they do come back,” suggested Bluett.

Twenty minutes later a man approached by the road from the church, and Cramphorn eagerly enquired of him whether he had seen the funeral.

“Funeral? No, I seed no funeral,” answered the voice of Merry Jonathan. “Be that Parson Yates huntin’ ghostes again?”

“We have come to liberate these unhappy phantoms and so far failed. They passed before I summoned presence of mind to address them.”

“‘Passed?’ When? Why for didn’t I see ’em?”

“You!” snorted Johnny Cramphorn. “Who be the likes of you to see such holy things?”

Jonathan growled and approached Jenifer and her mother.

“Best you women come home, else you’ll get your noses frozen off, an’ the spirits won’t thaw ’em for ’e, ’cepting those at home.”

“Let us have no irreverence, Jonathan Godbeer,” said the clergyman. “You will do better to add your prayers to ours, that my courage may be sustained and my voice strengthened for the coming ordeal.”

The captain of the smugglers did not answer, but strode forth and walked over white ground lately traversed by the procession of spirits.

“Doan’t ’e cross theer track, my dear man,” cried Mrs. Pearn; “else ten to one they’ll blast ’e crooked for the rest of your days!”

But her caution came too late. Godbeer stood and gazed upon the snow where the spectral hearse had passed. Then he lifted his voice and shouted with all his might.“Gauger Bluett! Gauger Bluett! This here be your job, not parson’s. Quick, man, quick! Ghostes or no ghostes, the snow’s took their shoe marks if I see right. Boots an’ hoofs an’ wheels—no bogies them. Ha-ha! the spirits that passed along here was inside the hearse, not outside!”

The Exciseman and others rushed forward to find Merry Jonathan’s words were true, for the new-fallen snow had been trampled with feet of men and horses, and seamed with tracks of heavy wheels.

“Theer now! I’ve often thought they rascals might have ’e that way, Cap’n,” said Godbeer, with deep concern. “To think of the wickedness o’ the world! Just come in the trees behind the ruin. ’Tweern’t my business, of course, but more’n wance walkin’ ’pon the beach below, takin’ the air at low tide, I’ve looked up at the face of the cliff by night and fancied I seed ropes pulling things up the precipice. Then I thought, ‘No—surely not. Can’t be no hookem-snivey doings under darkness wi’ such a man as Cap’n Bluett amongst us.’”

Jonathan grinned and the moon came out and touched his white teeth. Cramphorn held up a lantern, and Bluett himself uttered words not seemly for the ear of Parson Yates.

Then he turned to follow the direction of the smugglers’ funeral.

“I bid every honest man come along with me in the King’s name,” he cried. “Them as have done this deed shall smart for theer night’s work yet!”

“Us’ll all help ’e heart an’ soul, I’m sure,” declared Merry Jonathan. “We’m a thought behind the rogues, I fear. But what’s that with right ’pon our side?”

They scrambled and hastened along the rutted snow, and Cramphorn and Godbeer commented in cheerful chorus on the event as they trotted beside the furious officer.

“What I’m fearin’ is that these scamps have been at theer games all the week,” gasped the aged Johnny while he shuffled forward. “Theer’s a dark plot against our good name, and while we’ve all been countin’ to rub it in to-morrow night, they’ve run theer cargo and hid it in the ruin of the Manor this longful time—pulled it up the cliff an’ been takin’ it away reg’lar night after night, while honest men was on the watch—some place else.”

“Makes me near burst wi’ rage,” said Jonathan, “an’ all them fine fellows ready, an’ the cutter sailin’ about over the sea so butivul! An’ perhaps the cargo was run that very night Cap’n Bluett comed amongst us at the ‘Golden Anchor,’ an’ told us what a great man he was. All play-actin’, an’ even my own girl Jenifer to come home so frightened. To think a man’s own girl would deceive him so wicked!”“Wi’ Pastor Yates at his post tu, tryin’ so hard to larn us all better!” panted Cramphorn.

Now ahead loomed a huge black object where crossways met at a lonely spot nearly a mile inland. It was empty and proved to be the skeleton of a farm waggon painted black, boarded up, and adorned with tufts of shavings dipped in tar. The snow had been trampled for twenty yards round about it and indications of other wheels diverged landward on three sides into the night.

Cramphorn, Godbeer and Robert Bluett, now far ahead of their companions, stood before this spectacle.

“They’ve done you, by G—!” gasped the old man. “An’ to think of all your bold heroes with theer swords an’ cutlasses an’ pistols a-sitting freezing in every lane and by every drain an’ rat-hole around the village! ’Tis amazin’ such things be allowed to fall out.”

The officer did not answer. He had seen the ancient and Godbeer grin amiably each upon the other, and now his thick skull appreciated the truth and he turned to chew his gall alone.

Merry Jonathan shouted after him.

“Ten to one they’ll tell ’e that Maypole chap as walked in front of the funeral was a man by the name of Godbeer. But don’t you b’lieve it, Cap’n. You’ll never catch me an’ Master Cramphorn in no such job.”“Though we’ve made up our difference, as becomes Christian men,” declared Johnny.

Bluett turned and addressed them.

“They cry loudest who cry last,” he said. “The stones be piled as’ll hold you tight yet, you bowldacious thieves; an’ the wood be seasoned as you’ll swing from.”

Cramphorn wagged his beard.

“My stars! Hark to un! Theer’s a sour temper! Theer’s sorry thanks for all we’ve done! ’Tis a very thankless generation for sartain. Gimme your arm back-along, Merry. We’m most tu good to mix wi’ common men—you an’ me—that’s the naked truth of it.”