call rolling toward the cottage, rather enjoying the din made by himself and the dog, with a hundred echoes from every dell and hollow in the cliff. In a minute or two he saw the sailor stumping round the bushes, his head bare, his shirt open at the neck, a spade in one hand, and in the other a little square board.

"Oh, 'tis you, Mr. Hardy, sir. I was digging turnips at the back. Lor', sir, all Luscombe will know you've bin here, with this terrible row and all."

"I don't care if they do, and it was your dog that made the row."

"A good dog, sir. Living alone by myself, you see, I need a watch-dog. Come in, sir, come in."

He had removed a padlock, drawn two bolts and loosed two bars on the inner side, and thrown the gate open. Jack stepped into the garden, keeping an eye on the bulldog, which had ceased to bark as soon as Gumley appeared, but walked slowly round and round the visitor, sniffing at his legs as if choosing the best place for a bite.

"There's no cause for alarm, sir—leastways not while I'm on deck. I'd best introduce you proper like, then you'll be safe any time, fair weather or foul. This here's Comely; and this is Mr. Hardy of the Fury: twiggy-voo, as the mounseers say? Now pat him, sir."

Jack felt a little uneasy, but knowing that it is best to put a bold face on it, whether with dogs or men, he stooped and patted the massive head. With an expression that seemed to him more sinister than ever, the dog stuck out a red tongue and licked his hand.

"Now all's snug and shipshape, sir. Comely's your friend for life."

"Queer name that."

"True, sir. It was like this. I had a notion of calling him Handsome, 'cos handsome is as handsome does, and he does most uncommon handsome. But thinking it over between watches, as you may say, it seemed like poking fun at the poor beast that couldn't hit back, and I cast about for a name that would mean the same but not quite so strong. I tacked about for a time without catching a fair breeze, sir. Then all at once I remembered a word in my Bible: 'black but comely.' Comely's a good name, thinks I, and his muzzle's black, and my name's Gumley, so Comely it shall be: and Comely it is, sir. We're a pair, I can tell you, Comely and Gumley."

"A capital match," said Jack laughing. "But I say, why do you barricade yourself in like that?" Gumley had replaced padlock, bolts and bars. "Any one would think you were making ready to stand a siege."

"Well, sir, I won't say 'tis to be ready for Boney's landing, and I won't say 'tisn't."

He was now stumping up the path toward the cottage, and said no more. Jack saw that he did not mean to enlighten him, and changed the subject.

"I say, Gumley, why didn't you help Mr. Gudgeon out yesterday? You went on and left me to do it."

"Ay, ay, sir. The truth is, Mr. Gudgeon and me bean't, so to say, on speaking terms."

Jack felt that there was something puzzling about all this. Gumley was not popular with the villagers, Mr. Bastable had said; the old sailor had confessed to a feud or at least a coolness between himself and his neighbor on the opposite cliff. There was an honest look about his weather-beaten face; he did not seem to Jack morose or ill-tempered. What was at the bottom of this strange attitude of antagonism, shown by the man's somewhat elaborate defenses? Well, after all, it did not matter to Jack; his leave would be up in a few days, and then his duty would take him to sea.

He sat for some time in Gumley's trim little parlor, where everything bespoke the handy Jack Tar, chatting about sea life in general and the Ariadne in particular. Then the talk came round to Jack's new vessel, the Fury, and brought up the question of smuggling.

"Mr. Gudgeon said that a good deal goes on about here," said Jack, "and by George! my cousin, Mr. Bastable, told me that the villains ran a cargo ashore only last night. I suppose he met the riding-officer as he went for his morning canter. Did you hear anything of it?"

"Not a word, sir. I keep myself to myself."

"Yes, Mr. Gudgeon said much the same thing, I remember. But I suppose you hear talk in the village sometimes?"

"Never bin into the village since I gave up fishing, sir. I get all my victuals from Wynport, and often don't set eyes on the village folk from week-end to week-end, except at Church at Wickham Ferrers on Sunday."

"Why you're quite a hermit—almost as bad as Congleton."

"True, sir, but I've never bin crossed in love, 'cos I never seed a maid I fancied afore I lost my leg, and there's ne'er a maid would take a fancy to a poor chap with a stump like this. And I'm afeard of going like Congleton, sir."

"Yes, but, Gumley, never mind about that. Tell me straight out, man; are the people in Luscombe below there smugglers or not—the whole crew of 'em, I mean?"

"Well, since you put it plain, sir, I wouldn't be surprised if some of 'em think a sight more of French brandy than of Jamaica rum."

"That's no answer, you old rascal. Well, I'm going down to the village to have a look round. I saw some neat little smacks at the jetty yesterday, and one of 'em put out pretty smartly, too: was uncommonly well handled."

"Well, sir, you be a fine, mettlesome young gentleman; but if so be as I might advise you, I'd say keep your weather-eye open. If so be they are a smuggling lot below—well, they won't be exactly main pleased to see a king's officer."

"Bless you, they won't know me. I'm not in uniform, you see. Nobody knows who I am but my cousins and you and Mr. Gudgeon."

"True, sir; and me and Mr. Gudgeon keeps ourselves to ourselves, to be sure."