Doctor Syn: A Smuggler Tale of Romney Marsh. Arthur Russell Thorndike
himself up with hammering it.
On the way he met Doctor Syn, who was standing silhouetted against the skyline with his telescope focussed upon some large vessel that was standing in off Dungeness.
"Ah, Mr. Mipps," said the cleric, handing his telescope to the sexton, "tell me what you make of that?"
Mipps adjusted the lens and looked. "The Devil!" he ejaculated.
"I beg your pardon?" said the Doctor. "What did you say?" One of the King's preventer men had come out of his cottage and was approaching them.
"I don't make no head nor tale of it," replied the sexton. "Perhaps you do, sir?"
"Well, it looks to me," continued the parson, "it—looks—to—me—uncommonly like a King's frigate. Can't you make out her guns on the port side?"
"Yes!" cried the sexton; "I'll be hanged if you're not right, sir; it's a damned King's ship as ever was."
"Mr. Mipps," corrected the parson, "again I must ask you to repeat your remark."
"I said, sir," replied the sexton, meekly handing back the glass, "that you're quite right: it's a King's ship, a nice King's ship!"
"And she's standing in, too," went on the parson. "I can make her out plainly now, and, good gracious! she's lowering a long-boat!"
"Oh!" said Mr. Mipps, "I wonder wot that's for?"
"A revenue search," volunteered the preventer.
Mipps started. He hadn't seen the preventer.
"Hello!" he said, turning round; "didn't know you was there, Sir Francis Drake. What do you make of that there ship?"
"A King's frigate," replied the preventer man. "She's sending a boat's crew ashore."
"What for?" asked the sexton.
"I told you: a revenue search; to look for smugglers."
"Smugglers," laughed the parson, "here in Dymchurch?"
"Aye, sir, so they say. Smugglers here in Dymchurch."
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the parson incredulously.
"How silly!" said the sexton.
"That remains to be seen, Mister," retorted the preventer.
"What do you say?" said the sexton.
"I say, Mister, it remains to be seen."
"'Course it does!" went on the sexton. "Let's have another blink at her. "Well," he said at length, closing the telescope with a snap, and returning it, "King's ship or no, they looks to me more like a set of mahogany pirates, and I'm a-goin' to lock up the church. King's men's one thing, but havin' the plate took's another, and one that I don't fancy, being held responsible; so good afternoon, sir"—touching his hat to the vicar—"and good afternoon to you, Christopher Columbus." And with this little pleasantry, which struck him as being the height of humour, the grotesque little man hopped off at high speed in the direction of the inn.
"Odd little man that, sir," said the preventer.
"Very odd little man," said the vicar.
CHAPTER III
THE COMING OF THE KING'S MEN
MEANTIME the little sexton had arrived, breathless and panting, at the inn. Here he was accosted with a breezy, "Hello, Mr. Mipps, where's the Doctor?" The speaker was Denis Cobtree, the only son of the squire.
This young worthy of some eighteen summers was being prepared in the paths of learning by the vicar with a view to his entering the university; but Denis, like his father before him, cared very little for books, and the moment the Doctor's back was turned, off he would slip to talk to some weather-beaten seaman, or to attempt a flirtation with Imogene, the dark-haired girl who assisted the landlady at the inn.
"Just been talkin' to the vicar on the sea-wall," said Mipps, hurrying past into the parlour and calling loudly for Mrs. Waggetts.
"What do you want?" said that good lady, issuing from the kitchen with a teapot in her hand. Tea was the luxury she indulged in.
"A word," answered the sexton, pushing her back into the kitchen and shutting the door behind him.
"Whatever is it?" asked the landlady in some alarm.
"What's the time?" demanded the sexton.
"A quarter to four," replied Mrs. Waggetts, turning pale.
"Good!" said the sexton. "School will be closing in a minute or two, so send Imogene round there to ask Mr. Rash to step across lively as soon as he's locked up. But no"—he added thoughtfully—"I forgot: Rash is a bit struck on the girl and they'll linger on the way; send young Jerk, the potboy."
"Jerk's at school hisself," said Mrs. Waggetts.
"Then you go," retorted the sexton.
"No," faltered the landlady. "It's all right, I'll send the girl; for she can't abide Rash, so I'll be bound she won't linger. And while she's gone I'll brew you a nice cup of tea."
"Throw your tea to the devil," snarled the sexton. "One 'ud think you was a diamond duchess the way you consumes good tea. When shall I knock into your skull that tea's a luxury—a drink wot's only meant for swells? Perhaps you don't know what a power of money tea costs!"
"Come, now," giggled the landlady, "not to us, Mister Mipps. Not the way we gets it."
"I don't know what you means," snapped the wary sexton. "But I do wish as how you'd practise a-keepin' your mouth shut, for if you opens it much more that waggin' tongue of yours'll get us all the rope."
"Whatever is the matter?" whimpered the landlady.
"Will you do as I tell you?" shrieked the sexton.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Mrs. Waggetts, dropping the precious teapot in her agitation and running out of the back door toward the school. Mipps picked up the teapot and put it on the table; then lighting his short clay pipe he waited by the window.
In the bar sat Denis Cobtree, making little progress with a Latin book that was spread open on his knee. From the other side of the counter Imogene was watching him.
She was a tall, slim, wild creature, this Imogene, dressed as a fisher, with a rough brown skirt and a black fish blouse, and she wore neither shoes nor stockings. Her hair was long and her eyes black. She had no parents living, for her father—none other than the notorious pirate Clegg—had been hanged at Rye—hanged publicly by the redcoats for murder; and the mother—well, no one knew exactly who the mother was, Clegg having lived a wild and roving life; but it was evident that she must have been a southerner, from the complexion and supple carriage of this girl—probably some island woman of the Southern Seas. Imogene was a great favourite with all the men on account of her good looks and her dauntless courage when on the boats at sea; for she loved the sea and was wonderful upon it—her dark eyes flashing, her hair blowing wild, and her young bosom heaving with the thrill of fighting the waves.
Imogene liked Denis because he was nice to her, and, besides, he made her laugh: he was so funny. His ways were so funny, his high manners were so funny, but his shyness attracted her most.
He was shy now because they were alone, and the boy knew that she was watching him; so he made a feint of studying his book of Latin, but Imogene could see that his mind was not on his reading.
"You don't get on very fast, Mr. Denis," she said.
Denis looked up from the book and laughed. "No," he said, "not very, I'm afraid; I'm not very fond