THE VANISHING 
 ' SMUGGLER - 
 
 STEPHEN CHALMERS
 
 36 9 D
 
 THE VANISHING SMUGGLER
 
 The firelight danced mockingly on the faces of 
 the three men 
 
 Frontispiece
 
 The 
 
 Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN CHALMERS 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS BY NESBITT BENSON 
 
 New York 
 
 Edward J. Clode 
 
 Publisher
 
 Copyright, 1909, by 
 EDWARD J. CLODE
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE GENESIS OF " SMUGGLE-ERIE " . 1 
 
 II. THE THISTLE DOWN COMES TO PORT . 17 
 
 III. THE VANISHING SMUGGLER ... 30 
 
 IV. GRANT'S CONFESSION ... 47 
 V. WHIRLED INTO THE UNKNOWN . 64 
 
 VI. A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT . 72 
 
 VII. STILL WATERS RUN DEEP ... 85 
 
 VIII. THE NIGHT OF THE HARVEST-HOME . 100 
 
 IX. LOVE OR DUTY? 113 
 
 X. THE COUNCIL IN THE CAVE . . . 126 
 
 XI. SMUGGLE-ERIE FALLS FROM GRACE . 134 
 
 XII. A THOROUGH UNDERSTANDING . . 145 
 
 XIII. GROGBLOSSOM'S DISCOVERY . . . 154 
 
 XIV. STAND BY TO Go ABOUT . . .168 
 XV. THE MADNESS OF BEN LARKIN . .179 
 
 XVI. QUEER DOINGS . . . ... 191 
 
 XVII. " BARREL BARREL WHO'S GOT THE 
 
 BARREL? " 201 
 
 XVIII. A SENSATION IN MORAG .... 213 
 
 XIX. GRIZEL TO THE RESCUE .... 225 
 
 XX. EXODUS . . . . . . . 238 
 
 XXI. " IN CONCLUSION, GENTLEMEN " , . 250 
 
 2134S67
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The firelight danced mockingly on the 
 
 faces of the three men Frontispiece 
 
 " Lad, how would you like to be a real 
 
 smuggler? " Page 15 
 
 The coast-guard men and the cutter mould 
 
 patrol the Firth from dusk 139 
 
 He raised his eyes to hers and held out 
 
 his hand . "
 
 THE VANISHING SMUGGLER 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE GENESIS OF " SMUGGLE-ERIE " 
 
 THE winter moon, glowing like a tearful eye 
 through the fog, revealed only a few of the 
 scattered houses that stood for the Scotch 
 village of Morag. In the dense mist the walls rose 
 in the hoar-silvered light like circular piles of Druidic 
 ruins. 
 
 The great estuary of the Clyde lay like dull metal 
 under the moon halo, and the ripples sucked under 
 a fringing of ice, for so intense was the frost that 
 the Arctic finger encroached upon the salt sea. 
 
 It was midnight, yet the hour seemed full of 
 whisperings. The bellowing of the foghorn on the 
 Renfrewshire coast opposite, and the melancholy 
 clang of the Gantock bell on the midreef, sounded a 
 strange presage of evil. 
 
 In the coast-guard station, on the barren rocks at 
 the north end of Morag Bay, old Jack Cookson
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 turned uneasily on his bed. Every now and then he 
 got up, pulled aside the curtain of the little window 
 overlooking the bay, and peered through the moonlit 
 fog. Once he grunted decisively; put on his big, 
 blue reefer coat; jammed his sugarloaf hat on his 
 head; stuck an ancient telescope under the flipper 
 of the arm that was shot off at Trafalgar, and 
 stamped away into the night, with a great snorting 
 and blowing. But although he paraded the whole 
 sweep of the bay, he noted neither sight nor sound 
 that aroused his suspicion. 
 
 So the coast-guard went back to the station ; care- 
 fully wiped the hoar off the venerable telescope ; hung 
 it on a rack by the side of his bunk, and presently, 
 with many a snort, he resumed his uneasy slumbers. 
 
 He was not the only restless sleeper that night. 
 In the garret of Giles Scrymegeour's house in the 
 center of the village, there was a little fellow with a 
 toothache. He was eight years of age. 
 
 This was in the year 1815, but there was some- 
 thing about that toothache which caused him to 
 remember it through many a later year. As he lay 
 on his bed of old meal-bags for Giles Scrymegeour, 
 his guardian, was a mean man he somehow associated 
 the foghorn and the Gantock bell and the smell of 
 the meal-bags with his own misery. 
 
 He did not cry. Little Dick Scrymegeour was not 
 of that sort. His experience was that crying profited 
 [2]
 
 The Genesis of " Smuggle-erie " 
 
 nothing. He never got anything when he cried 
 anything he wanted. Old Giles would scold him and 
 send him to his garret, with a half-slice of dry bread 
 and a " tinny " of water, after repeating for the 
 thousandth time how he had taken the lad out of 
 the poorhouse, where they got skilly and water and 
 dry bread, even on feast-days. 
 
 Little Dick did not remember his poorhouse days, 
 nor his parents, whom the miser had ruined in some 
 way or other; but sometimes, when he was not too 
 hungry, he would take his " tinny " of water and bit 
 of bread, and go sullenly to his garret. Once there, 
 he would bar the door, and feed the bread to the mice, 
 the while swearing in his little pagan heart that when 
 he was strong enough he would take Giles Scryme- 
 geour Old Scryme, they called him and slowly and 
 deliberately strangle him with his hands. 
 
 WJilng! went a shaft of toothache through his face 
 as he rehearsed how he would commit the murder. 
 He opened his eyes and looked up at the slanting 
 roof of the garret, as one will do in the night of pain. 
 The dark seemed full of red spots and fiery tadpoles. 
 Whing! A groan fairly burst from the little stoic's 
 lips. He rose and felt in the dark for his kilt, for 
 he slept in his only other garment. He dressed in 
 the dark, Giles having taken away the candle. The 
 boy had made up his mind to go and wake up the 
 dominie, a kind old man the father of the village
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 doctor, dentist, magistrate, and scholar and ask him 
 to pull the tooth. It was quite a brave thing for a 
 lad of eight to contemplate, but whing! little 
 Dick had learned independence of action in the bitter 
 school of an orphan's experience. 
 
 When he was fully dressed, except for his shoes 
 if they can be called garments he took these in his 
 left hand, quietly undid the latch, and crept down 
 the rickety wooden stairs to the back door. One 
 of these days, the waif reflected, he would prowl down- 
 stairs just like this, when he went to murder old 
 Giles. But that time was not yet. 
 
 He had just opened the back door when he stopped 
 with a great thump of his heart. Something was 
 wrong here. The door had not even been on the 
 latch a thing quite incredible in the house of the 
 miser, Giles Scrymegeour. Filled with the sudden 
 fear of a specter at his elbow, the boy slowly turned 
 his head. There was nothing there but another door, 
 which led into Giles's shop. Here the miser kept 
 his stock of cheeses and cloths, and the old iron box 
 which was said to be full of deeds and mortgages and 
 similar weapons for wringing the hearts and pockets 
 of his neighbors. 
 
 What stirred the boy to wild curiosity was a ray 
 
 of candle-light, shining through the keyhole; and 
 
 also he heard voices on the other side of the shop 
 
 door. His guardian Uncle Giles, as he was taught 
 
 [4]
 
 The Genesis of " Smuggle-erie" 
 
 to call him should, by all custom, be asleep at this 
 hour; and, even if Dick had not heard the voices, 
 he was sure that Old Scryme would never waste a 
 candle in this fashion. He would rather sit in the 
 dark. 
 
 In another moment the eye of the little pagan 
 was at the keyhole, and in the same instant his tooth- 
 ache was gone quite gone. In after years the mere 
 memory of that night was enough to cure him of 
 the worst toothache. On the iron box this is what 
 he saw ! was a lighted candle stuck in an empty 
 bottle. The glow from the flame fell upon a pile of 
 golden guineas, and lit up the claw hands of his 
 Uncle Giles as he counted the money into several 
 smaller piles. And the same glow cast queer shadows 
 on the faces of several rough sailormen, who stood 
 round the box and the candle and the gold, and 
 glared down upon every movement of the miser's 
 claw hands with suspicion and avarice. 
 
 One of the group, a great, bearded, broad-shoul- 
 dered giant, whose face was of nobler cast than the 
 others, suddenly stuck out his long arms and, like 
 a watchman forcing a crowd with a staff, pushed the 
 men back with a growl. 
 
 The little eavesdropper's ear relieved his eye at 
 the keyhole. 
 
 " like a pack of carrion crows," he heard the big 
 man say. " Ye'll get your deserts by and by. 
 
 [5]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 Dinna be in a hurry. Better men than you have 
 got more than they bargained for by being in ower 
 great a hurry." 
 
 The others obeyed him as if he were the acknowl- 
 edged master. And this was what set the boy at 
 the keyhole thinking. He knew the man. There was 
 none in Morag but would have known him a pillar 
 of the kirk a leading man of the burgh. What 
 was he doing here, in the company of three others 
 whose names were a byword for poaching and 
 smuggling? Most of all, what was he doing at 
 dead of night in the disreputable shop of Giles 
 Scrymegeour, the miser, a man whom this same 
 pillar of respectability had more than once de- 
 nounced as a public menace? And counting 
 golden guineas? The little pagan glued his ear to 
 the keyhole. 
 
 " Sixty-four guineas an' not a bawbee less ! " one 
 of the men was saying. 
 
 " But the risk's mine ! " whined Old Scryme. 
 " Think o't, man, and, forbye, I havena seen the 
 stuff." 
 
 " Risk ! " snapped the bearded giant. " Who 
 speaks o' risk? Take it, or leave it, Giles Scryme- 
 geour. My work's done. The stuff is where you 
 know how to dispose of it. Enough of this gabbling. 
 Pay! " 
 
 The leader rapped his knuckles on the box in a 
 [6]
 
 The Genesis of ee Smuggle-erie" 
 
 way that sent Old Scryme's claws to rattling the 
 guineas like metal castanets. 
 
 The boy's heart beat wildly. He crouched on 
 his knees, leaning his face against the door, loath 
 to miss a word. 
 
 Strangely and evilly informed for his years, he 
 knew what was going on before him. So Uncle Giles 
 was a smuggler worse than a smuggler the man 
 who played the fiddle when the smugglers danced ! 
 The boy's soul soared with delight. He had a vision 
 of his guardian's face next time he offered him dry 
 bread and water for supper. He would ask him 
 when he expected another midnight visit from 
 Heather Bloom, the notorious smuggler! 
 
 But to think that Heather Bloom was why, it 
 was incredible ! It had been whispered of the others ; 
 in fact, there was hardly a full-grown man in Morag 
 who could plead not guilty to a charge of smuggling ; 
 but to think that Heather Bloom fearless Heather 
 Bloom whom old Jack Cookson and Collector Hor- 
 neycraft would have sold their honor to identify, 
 was none other than 
 
 The boy's legs, cramped up under him on the floor, 
 suddenly slid outward and he crashed against the 
 door. At the same moment the light in the keyhole 
 went out and there came a sudden jangle of money, 
 then a momentary silence, broken at length by a fear- 
 stricken whisper inside the room: 
 
 [7]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Did ye hear't? Guid forgie us, there's a revenue 
 spy ahint the door!" 
 
 " Quiet ! " came a tense whisper. " If that man 
 escapes, we're all in jail." 
 
 The boy on the other side of the door had been 
 petrified with fright for a moment, but at the first 
 whispering his wits returned. He silently picked 
 up his shoes and crept to the back door, which was 
 still open to the misty moonlight. 
 
 Then, with a yell of excitement and defiance, he 
 darted away, heedless of the sharp, icy stones that 
 stabbed the soles of his feet. The moment the yell 
 sounded, the smugglers, all except Giles Scrymegeour, 
 who crammed the gold into the iron box and then 
 sat down, wringing his hands and whining, dashed 
 out of the miser's house and after the retreating 
 figure, which loomed large and manlike in the fog. 
 Once the leader of the smugglers stopped, put his 
 fingers to his mouth, and whistled in a peculiar way. 
 Then the chase began in silent earnest. 
 
 The fog was thicker than ever, and to the lad's 
 imagination the horn-bellowing seemed louder and the 
 Gantock bell-clang more menacing. He could hardly 
 see ten yards before him, but he knew every stick 
 and stone in Morag, and within five miles of it. 
 Otherwise he would have been overtaken, or trapped, 
 before he had gone two hundred yards ; for he pres- 
 ently became aware that he was being pursued, not 
 
 [8]
 
 The Genesis of " Smuggle-erie " 
 
 only by the four smugglers he had seen in Uncle 
 Giles's shop, but by others who began to appear 
 mysteriously from different directions. 
 
 The blood coursed in his veins faster and hotter. 
 In spite of his physical fear, this was a game he 
 liked and of which, in the child-play sense, he was 
 a master. It was the great and glorious game of 
 " smuggle-erie," and among the children of Morag 
 this same lad Dick was known as " Smuggle-erie." 
 Swift of foot, alert of eye, and cunning of mind, 
 there was not a hiding-place in the village that he 
 did not know, and there was many a refuge of which 
 the other boys did not dream, when little Dick was 
 the " smuggler " to be caught. 
 
 As he ran, he laughed to think how he could outwit 
 these clumsy-footed grown-ups. Several times voices 
 behind him cried to voices in the fog before him, and 
 thrice he narrowly escaped plunging into the arms of 
 a figure that would suddenly loom out of the mist; 
 but ever the supple ankle and swift foot carried him 
 like a deer from danger. 
 
 Once, when they had closed in all around him, he 
 stood perfectly still. Two smugglers ran out and 
 grappled with one another in the fog. He dashed 
 past them and, slipping behind a rock, yelled at 
 the top of his lungs that glorious whoop of the 
 game: 
 
 " Smuggle-erie I " 
 
 [9]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 But that was the only sound. The old coast- 
 guard may have heard it, or only thought he heard 
 it, and turned over to dream once more of the battle 
 of Trafalgar. The smugglers themselves pursued 
 their quarry with never a sound, save a quiet call 
 or a whistle and, once, a sharp curse of alarm when 
 the boy shouted the guilty word. 
 
 Aye! it was a game of smuggle-erie the real 
 game; and Dick Scrymegeour reveled in it. He 
 was no longer afraid of the smugglers. They were 
 playfellows, to his boy mind. He had never a 
 thought of physical violence now. It was his cun- 
 ning against theirs in the game of all games that 
 he loved the most. 
 
 But in a little while his breath came quick and 
 short ; there was a sharp, continuous pain in his side. 
 Smuggle-erie was glad when he found a hiding-place 
 where he could remain in safety for a few minutes, 
 and he grew chary of uttering the cry that kept the 
 pot boiling and told his enemies of his whereabouts. 
 But the smugglers were relentless. The safety of 
 every man of them hung by the capture of that eaves- 
 dropper, who darted hither and thither with a shout 
 which, to their understanding, meant only a warning 
 to the coast-guard. The smugglers spread like 
 game-beaters, and advanced in a broadside line, 
 stealthily peering into the doorways of the cottages, 
 behind rocks and under the overturned boats on the 
 [10]
 
 The Genesis of "Smuggle-erie" 
 
 beach. Morag slept through it all, or, if awake, 
 it was peculiarly deaf. 
 
 The chase had been in full cry for fifteen minutes 
 when Smuggle-erie cast around in his mind for a 
 supreme trick that would end the game and allow 
 him a clear course to the back door of Giles Scryme- 
 geour's house. Between him and his garret was the 
 line of smugglers, and by this time he had been 
 forced almost to the south end of the village. Be- 
 yond there was nothing but the bleak, frozen hills 
 a dire place for a night's lodging and the fir woods 
 surrounding the laird's castle. 
 
 Then a refuge occurred to the boy's mind a 
 hiding-place, the very nature of which sent a chill 
 through his blood. A few hundred yards beyond 
 the southern extremity of the village, and by the gate 
 entering the laird's estate, was an old gardener's 
 lodge, which had stood tenantless for as long as 
 Smuggle-erie could remember. The place was re- 
 puted a haunt of ghosts. 
 
 Smuggle-erie was running toward this sinister 
 place before he fully realized what chances he was 
 taking with the supernatural. Once a great black 
 bull had swum in from the sea to the Bull Rock, 
 a headland fronting the lodge on the sea side, and 
 had drowned because it could not scramble up the 
 slippery sides of the massive bowlder. Ever since 
 then, legend had a picturesque description of a gigan- 
 [11]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 tic black bull, which was to be seen o' nights round 
 the rock and the lodge and the fir plantation, charg- 
 ing about with fiery eyes and flaming nostrils. 
 
 Many a time the unkempt ward of the miser had 
 challenged his boy companions to visit the lodge by 
 night, but, somehow, the daring had never become 
 a deed. Now, Smuggle-erie was about to make a 
 virtue of a necessity, but, as he strove to assure 
 himself, he had never believed in ghosts, anyway. 
 
 He had little time in which to choose, at the best 
 of it. His sole chance of winning the game of 
 smuggle-erie lay in reaching that haunted lodge. 
 He never supposed for a moment that any of his 
 pursuers would enter the place so great, indeed, was 
 the local terror of the black bull. But they were 
 close behind him. They had run straight upon his 
 heels from the last point where he emerged to view. 
 
 Again the peculiar whistle sounded. It sent an 
 uneasy pang through the boy's heart, but it was too 
 late now to choose any other course. His feet were 
 bruised and half frozen by the stones, and the thumb 
 and finger which gripped his shoes were painfully 
 cramped. By the time he reached the lodge, he 
 was too glad to have arrived to care anything about 
 ghosts. But no sooner had he sprung into the 
 haunted place than his heart gave a great leap, then 
 stopped as if frozen. 
 
 He could see nothing but a dazzling glare of light, 
 [12]
 
 The Genesis of " Smuggle-erie " 
 
 as he came to an astonished halt in the middle of 
 the damp, rotten floor. 
 
 For a moment he thought he had come face to 
 face with the bull, but as his eyes became used to 
 the glare, he discovered that it came from a lamp in 
 the hand of a man ; and there were a dozen other 
 men in the place, besides a fine array of bales, barrels, 
 and miscellaneous merchandise, piled on the floor. 
 
 " Hey ! " ej aculated the man who held the lamp. 
 "What's this?" 
 
 The man was too astonished to lay hands upon 
 Smuggle-erie, even. The lad stood there, blinking 
 and panting and grinning, and wondering why they 
 all looked so startled so frightened ! Then the 
 night was filled with a rushing of feet. Next mo- 
 ment Heather Bloom and half a dozen men dashed 
 into the lodge and slammed the door tight after 
 them. 
 
 "Have ye got him?" Heather Bloom asked 
 sharply. 
 
 " N-na ! " stammered the man with the lamp. 
 " But there's a lad Scrymegeour's lad tumbled in 
 here like a shot." 
 
 Then there was silence. Heather Bloom, at first 
 amazed, then suspicious, then with a slow-dawning 
 sense of the ridiculous, gazed upon the boy who had 
 put the fear of death into the hearts of a score of 
 smugglers. And Smuggle-erie, himself, gazed upon 
 [13]
 
 Lad, how would you like to be a real smuggler ?" 
 
 Page 15
 
 The Genesis of ff Smuggle-erie" 
 
 The boy lifted his eyes and fixed them savagely 
 upon his guardian's face. There was something in 
 them that made Old Scryme turn pale. 
 
 " Was't him ? " he whispered. 
 
 " Aye him ! " said Heather Bloom. " What's to 
 be done with the lad? He kens enough to wring 
 your neck, Master Giles Scrymegeour." 
 
 The miser's face screwed up into evil wrinkles, 
 and his eyes danced furtively. He suddenly turned 
 to the men and spoke as if to excuse his sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 " If he goes back to Morag, there's no one o' us '11 
 be oot o' j ail in a week ! " he cried. " It's a desp'rit 
 sittyation a desp'rit sittyation ! " 
 
 " Maybe," said the leader quietly, " ye would have 
 no objection, Giles, if we tied a stone to the brat's 
 feet and dropped him ower the Bull Rock ? " 
 
 " It might be for the best," muttered the miser, 
 turning up the whites of his eyes. " It's a very 
 desp'rit sittyation ! " 
 
 Heather Bloom threw his hands in the air with 
 an expression of disgust. 
 
 " Grogblossom," he said to a smuggler with a fat, 
 pig-like face, " take this lad aboard the schooner 
 and, as ye value your neck, keep him safe. " Lad, 
 he added, turning to the boy, " how would ye like 
 to be a real smuggler ? " 
 
 And the boy, boy-like, replied: 
 [15]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 "Fine, sir!" 
 
 " Very well," said Heather Bloom. With a con- 
 temptuous glance at Giles Scrymegeour, he added: 
 " It's a blessing for us and a pity for the lad that 
 there's none to say no to it." 
 
 [16]
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE THISTLE DOWN COMES TO PORT 
 
 TWELVE years later the little signal cannon in 
 the Thistle Down's bows boomed through the late 
 dusk, and the schooner's anchor splashed merrily into 
 the waters of Morag Bay. 
 
 " Well, well ! " cried Grogblossom, the fat cook, 
 wiping his red, pig face as he stepped out of the 
 galley. " Here we are, lads, an' bless't if the auld 
 toon's no in the same place. Noo, Red Heid," he 
 added, waddling toward a short fiery-haired man 
 who leaned by the gunwale, " will ye promise to get 
 yer hair cut afore we put to sea ag'in? " 
 
 " Lemme hair alone ! " growled the Red Mole. 
 " It's nae worse than your face." 
 
 " Hoot, toot ! " protested Grogblossom. " It's the 
 galley fire, man the galley fire. Well, well! An' 
 there's auld Morag, as fine a sight for sore eyes as 
 ye'd want after a' they French frog-stools. It's a 
 sayin', ye ken, that a' things change, but the Bible 
 must ha' meant everything excep' Morag. Losh, 
 man, I'll swear there's no been a hoose built in 
 my time." 
 
 [17]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 The Red Mole turned away and looked impatiently 
 up and down the deck. He seemed assured, presently, 
 by the calm poise of Captain Grant, as the com- 
 mander stood by the wheel and waved a hand to some- 
 one in an approaching boat. 
 
 " The whole pack o' them '11 be aboard in a 
 minute," said the Red Mole to Grogblossom. " Man, 
 I've been through this thing a score o' times, an' 
 I'm still fear't." 
 
 "Hoot, toot!" said Grogblossom. " Ye'd think 
 a man wi' a heid like yours would no be afeared o' 
 anything. But I was thinkin' there's been changes 
 in Morag, after a'. There's a few mair bairns an' 
 a few mair graves in the kirkyard. An' there 
 comes the lass, Red Mole! See her comin' off in 
 the boat yonder wi' the dominie. Hech, sir! I 
 mind the night her mother dee'd same night we 
 brung Smuggle-erie aboard. Puir Mistress Grant ! 
 Aye, aye. Change an' decay change an' decay, 
 even in Morag ! " 
 
 " It's him I'm feared o'," growled the Red Mole ; 
 " aye, ever since that very night." 
 
 " Who? " asked the cook, waking up from his 
 mournful thoughts. 
 
 " The skipper," was the reply. " It's my opeenion 
 
 he'll take to releegion afore long, he's that fu' o' 
 
 auld wives' warnin's. It makes an or'nar' man 
 
 nervous. He's goin' doon the hill, Grogblossom 
 
 [18]
 
 The Thistle Down Comes to Port 
 
 doon the hill. If it was no for Smuggle-erie, there'd 
 never be a drop run through." 
 
 " Doon the hill aye, aye ! " sighed Grogblossom. 
 " No wunncr. The man's got a conscience, like 
 mysel'. It was his evil transgressions that sent 
 her gray hairs in sorrer to the grave." 
 
 " She hadna gray hairs," protested the Red Mole 
 stolidly. 
 
 " Na ? " murmured Grogblossom. " Maybe she 
 had a red heid. Well, here's the rev'nue boat. I'm 
 off ! An' here's luck to Smuggle-erie ! " He wad- 
 dled back into the galley, but gave the Red Mole a 
 shock by turning and saying deliberately : " I wunner 
 if it's true that a body's hair grows in the coffin 
 after " 
 
 " Shut up ! " growled the Red Mole, turning away, 
 much perturbed. 
 
 Captain Grant, in the meantime, stood awaiting 
 the revenue boat, which shot out from the coast- 
 guard station with old Jack Cookson aboard; also 
 Mr. Horneycraft, collector of revenue, and Lieuten- 
 ant Ben Larkin, a young naval officer recently ap- 
 pointed to the coast-guard service in a determined 
 effort to suppress smuggling. The nefarious trade 
 had been growing to an alarming extent along the 
 west coast of Scotland, and particularly in the 
 vicinity of Morag. 
 
 Indeed, the daring with which contraband was 
 [19]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 being trafficked in the Firth of Clyde had at last 
 aroused the special attention of the government. 
 The famous Heather Bloom, a personage whose exist- 
 ence had been more or less doubted for fifteen years, 
 partly because it was impossible to place his identity, 
 had convinced the revenue authorities by his daring 
 exploits that he was no myth, and that his was the 
 clever brain which directed the successful smuggling 
 of recent years. When young Ben Larkin got his 
 commission from the Lords of the Admiralty, he re- 
 ceived a clap on the back from a friendly well-wisher 
 and the hint that if he captured the man, or even 
 discovered his identity, there would be greater honor 
 in store for him. 
 
 It was in pursuance of his rigid policy of thor- 
 oughly examining the credentials of every vessel that 
 moved in or near Morag waters, that Lieutenant 
 Larkin accompanied the coast-guard and Mr. Hor- 
 neycraft aboard the Thistle Down. Not that he or 
 his associates expected to discover anything sus- 
 picious or contraband about the schooner, which was 
 a Morag-owned, Morag-manned craft, plying with 
 oats, broadcloth, and general merchandise between 
 the Scotch village and English ports ; but the clever- 
 ness of Heather Bloom demanded that every pre- 
 caution be taken. 
 
 In this instance there might well have been excuse 
 for special attention to the Thistle Down, for the 
 [20]
 
 The Thistle Down Comes to Port 
 
 schooner had just returned after one of her very 
 rare trips to Bordeaux, and vessels out of that French 
 port were ever worthy of close inspection. As Mr. 
 Horneycraft put it, in his misanthropic way of 
 thinking and speaking: 
 
 " There are lads aboard and lasses ashore, and the 
 French make fine gewgaws." 
 
 It was impossible to know Mr. Horneycraft for 
 five minutes without discovering the principal pecu- 
 liarity of his character. That strain of suspicious- 
 ness which is common to man and animal, was devel- 
 oped in him to an abnormal degree. It may have 
 been born in him, or engendered by the nature of 
 his profession, but it is certain that he believed all 
 men were malefactors, if not in deed, at least by 
 inclination. As old Jack Cookson would say of him : 
 
 " Mr. Horneycraft, sir, would look for contra- 
 band under the chair you offered him, by thunder ! " 
 
 Of this old sea-dog, what he could not say for 
 himself was never worth saying about him. He had 
 fought under Nelson at Trafalgar, sir, and was a 
 loyal subject of King George, bless 'im! and he had 
 a set of principles from which no man could force 
 him to depart, by thunder! It was he who relieved 
 a certain stiffness when the three occupants of the 
 revenue boat boarded the Thistle Down and were 
 greeted by Captain John Grant. 
 
 " I notice," said Mr. Horneycraft icily, " that 
 [21]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 your vessel invariably arrives unexpectedly, Captain 
 Grant." 
 
 "For you, possibly," retorted the skipper, with 
 the ghost of a hard smile. 
 
 "And always at dawn, or late dusk," said Mr. 
 Horneycraft, 
 
 " By the sailor's timepiece, it's all one," said 
 the captain. 
 
 " Spoken like a British sailor ! " cried the coast- 
 guard, sticking out his one and only hand to Captain 
 Grant, who gripped it with a laugh. " Why, sir," 
 said old Cookson, " my old Admiral, Horatio Nelson, 
 waited for neither dark nor daylight. ' There's 
 the enemy ! ' ses 'e. ' Let 'er go, my lads ! West- 
 minster Abbey or victory ! ' And before midnight, 
 by thunder, we blew the French flagship sky-high! 
 Yes, sir sky-high! " 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," said the captain, " I want to 
 get ashore. Will you step into the cuddy? The 
 papers are all ready." 
 
 Lieutenant Ben Larkin had been running his 
 eyes over the vessel and her commander, while old 
 Jack Cookson was breaking the icicles between Hor- 
 neycraft and Grant. It was a favorite suspicion 
 of Horneycraft's that the Thistle Down was a sail- 
 ing hotbed of contraband. She was the only vessel 
 of any size which sailed in and out of Alorag Bay. 
 Her owner was her commander, Grant, although it 
 [22]
 
 The Thistle Down Comes to Port 
 
 was said that Richard Halliday, the laird, had an 
 interest in her, and rumor had it also that old Giles 
 Scryrnegeour, too, had his talons in the pie. 
 
 Giles, it may be worth noting, controlled most of 
 the business in Morag, which was the trade center 
 of a large part of the district known as Cowal. 
 Even the capital of Argyll, Inveraray, drew a large 
 amount of her supplies through Morag, which was 
 conveniently situated on the Clyde and within easy 
 reach of Glasgow. It has ever been a matter for 
 surprise that Morag has not grown in size and com- 
 mercial importance, but even to this day the duke 
 has refused franchise to that main artery of industry, 
 the railway. 
 
 The Thistle Down was a craft of some seventy 
 tons burden, and presented a more graceful yacht- 
 like appearance than was usual in Clyde craft of 
 her size. Lieutenant Ben Larkin saw with a sailor's 
 eye that she was a sleek, slippery vessel, and her 
 white decks and shimmering brass-work spoke of 
 a discipline quite in accordance with the appearance 
 of her master, Captain Grant. The skipper was 
 a tall, broad-beamed man, heavy-browed and bearded. 
 He spoke little and led the way to the schooner's 
 cuddy with a decisiveness that was equal to a com- 
 mand to follow. While Horneycraft's suspicious 
 eye peered at the ship's papers the master stood 
 by, respectful and attentive, but with a hint of 
 [23]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 defiance in the way he leaned his hand on the table, 
 the fist shut, and a faint smile hovering about his 
 brown beard. 
 
 " Quite satisfactory," said Mr. Horneycraft, and 
 added, almost like an afterthought, " Of course ! " 
 
 " Thank you," said the captain. 
 
 " You must pardon me, Captain Grant," Mr. 
 Horneycraft went on, " but with your permission, 
 Mr. Cookson and I will look over the ship." 
 
 " The permission is unnecessary," replied Grant 
 ironically. 
 
 " Merely a form," put in the lieutenant, half 
 ashamed of Mr. Horneycraft's lack of tact. " This 
 Heather Bloom, you know 
 
 "Yes?" said the captain, his face like a steel 
 trap. 
 
 " This Heather Bloom is giving a lot of trouble. 
 In my business, you know," and Larkin laughed 
 lightly, " a man is not permitted to trust his own 
 brother. I am sure Mr. Horneycraft will make his 
 visit as brief as possible." 
 
 " For that matter," said Captain Grant, with his 
 cryptic smile, " he is welcome to remain aboard as 
 long as he pleases. Grogblossom ! " he added, rais- 
 ing his voice. 
 
 As the fat sailor with the moribund thoughts 
 entered, the master waved a hand. It was like a 
 preconcerted signal, for in another moment, Grog' 
 [24]
 
 The Thistle Down Comes to Port 
 
 blossom, like a ponderous geni in a ludicrous Ara- 
 bian tale, appeared with a tray, a bottle, and four 
 glasses. 
 
 " To your good health, gentlemen ! " said the 
 captain, when the glasses were filled, and lifting his 
 own with a gesture full of quiet dignity. 
 
 " Here's to Heather Bloom ! " said Lieutenant 
 Larkin jocularly. 
 
 " when I catch him," added Mr. Horneycraft 
 sourly. 
 
 " Here's to King George bless 'im ! " bellowed 
 the old coast-guard, indignant at the omission, " and 
 confound his enemies." 
 
 The glasses were raised with a laugh which height- 
 ened as the lieutenant cried, " and to the lady in the 
 doorway." 
 
 Standing on the companion-steps and looking 
 down into the cuddy, was the sweetest, freshest 
 Scotch lass it had ever been the young officer's good 
 luck to see. 
 
 " I looks toward you, madam," he called gallantly. 
 And he could have sworn that she was sweeter than 
 any lass of Richmond Hill when she courtesied, and 
 laughingly ga.ve the correct response to that old 
 toast : 
 
 " ' I observes it, sir, and likewise bows ! ' : 
 
 At the voice, Captain Grant set down his glass 
 with a sudden ejaculation of pleasure. 
 [25]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Ha! Grizel ! I thought I saw you in the boat. 
 And who was with you? " 
 
 " The dear old dominie," she cried exuberantly, 
 " and Mr. Scrymegeour." It was interesting to note 
 the shift of her expression from sunshine to shadow 
 as she spoke the two names. 
 
 " And where's the dominie ? " the captain asked. 
 
 " Coming ! Coming ! " said a voice from the com- 
 panion. " Old bones, my friend, old bones. Crabbed 
 age and youth, one might say, cannot walk together." 
 
 The figure of a fine old man, stooped with age, 
 white-haired and with a long, thin beard of the same 
 hue, came slowly down the companion, his thin hands 
 clutching firmly at his staff handle, over which a 
 bit of white lace fell in old-fashioned grace from 
 the sleeve-cuff. 
 
 The dominie was the grand old man of Morag. 
 He knew the pedigree of every man, woman, and 
 child in the parish, and, as the village ^Esculapius, 
 he was acquainted with the personal idiosyncrasies, 
 pathological tendencies, and inherited strains of each 
 family. To him were referred for arbitration all 
 questions of lore, learning, and law ; for besides being 
 a scholar of no mean order in those times, he was 
 a bailie in the land, and when the occasion arose 
 administered a queer mixture of moral philosophy 
 and legal justice. 
 
 Behind him as he came down the companion-steps 
 [26]
 
 The Thistle Down Comes to Port 
 
 was Giles Scrymegeour, the miser. As both entered 
 the cabin, the esteem in which either man was held 
 was marked by the respectful enthusiasm with which 
 the dominie was greeted, even by Horneycraft, and 
 the manner in which Old Scryme, of equal years, 
 slid like a rat into a corner, after grinning and 
 nodding at each in turn. 
 
 " Well, business is business," said Old Scryme, 
 when the usual welcomes to the ship were over. 
 
 At that, Mr. Horneycraft, having glanced at the 
 label on the bottle which Grogblossom had set on 
 the table, rose and prepared to go on a search 
 through the ship. 
 
 But the voice of the girl stopped him. Grizel, 
 after looking vainly around the cabin and expectantly 
 eying the companion until her patience was ex- 
 hausted, suddenly blurted out: 
 
 " Where's Smuggle-erie ? " 
 
 The words were no sooner out of her mouth than 
 Old Scryme, who had been running his nose over 
 the lines of the manifest, gave a jump that brought 
 all eyes upon him. The miser was trembling like 
 a sick man. But Captain Grant looked up calmly, 
 drew his hand over his daughter's brown hair, and 
 said: 
 
 " Is he not aboard, lass ? Then he must ha' gone 
 ashore. I mind he had a bit of Valenciennes lace 
 for you." 
 
 [27]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Indeed," said Horneycraft, his tone full of tri- 
 umph, and his eyes flashing from the cringing Old 
 Scryme to Lieutenant Larkin. " Who gave any- 
 one permission to leave this ship ? " 
 
 The captain's eyes turned full upon him. 
 
 " You speak to me, I take it ? " 
 
 " Aye, to you. You have been long enough master 
 of a ship to be aware that no person may leave it 
 before it has been cleared by his majesty's revenue 
 officer? " 
 
 " I am aware of it," said Grant stonily. 
 
 " You are aware of it ! " snapped the exasperated 
 Mr. Horneycraft. " Yet you calmly inform me 
 that one Smuggle-erie 
 
 " Gentlemen ! Gentlemen ! " protested the dominie, 
 while Lieutenant Larkin grew red and old Jack 
 Cookson snorted loudly. 
 
 " that Smuggle-erie a likely name leaves the 
 ship with a piece of Valenciennes lace." 
 
 " I believe I said so to my girl, here," said Captain 
 Grant, a red glow spreading around his temples. 
 " Be careful what you say, now, Master Busy- 
 body." 
 
 " Spoken like -an Englishman ! " the coast-guard 
 burst out. 
 
 " Busybody," sneered Mr. Horneycraft, his face 
 livid with shock. " Be none too sure that my busy- 
 ness has been in vain, Captain Grant, or that the 
 [28]
 
 The Thistle Down Comes to Port 
 
 master of the Thistle Down has not a name like 
 his vessel " 
 
 Captain Grant's fist came down on the table with 
 a sharp but quiet impact. The air became charged 
 with menace. 
 
 Horneycraft's words died in his throat as the 
 lion-like sea-master rose to full length before him. 
 
 Grant's face was pale, but his eyes and his tongue 
 were like lithe steel. 
 
 " King's officer or no," he said, " if you apply 
 that name to me in the presence of my girl, I will 
 lift you by the scruff of your scrawny neck and 
 drop you overboard ! " 
 
 [29]
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE VANISHING SMUGGLER 
 
 THE captain's threat produced embarrassment 
 upon all in the cabin of the Thistle Down. At a 
 sign from her father, Grizel fled to the deck. The 
 skipper, quietly but firmly, faced Mr. Horneycraft. 
 The dominie and the coast-guard both protested, 
 the former in gentle terms, the latter in a series of 
 indignant snorts. In the corner was Giles Scryme- 
 geour, a damp, quivering, despicable heap. The only 
 man who acted with any degree of promptitude was 
 the lieutenant, Ben Larkin. 
 
 " Mr. Horneycraft," he said sharply, " while it is 
 my duty to support you in matters of this kind, 
 I am surprised at the stand you have taken. No 
 doubt, Captain Grant erred in permitting any of 
 his crew to leave the ship before you cleared her, 
 but your insinuation with regard to a lad who has 
 stolen off, eager to see his his mother, perhaps, is 
 absurd, based as it is upon a quibble." 
 
 With that, the lieutenant marched up the com- 
 panion with a manly squaring of his shoulders. The 
 coast-guard followed with an explosive " Spoken 
 [30]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 like an Englishman ! " The dominie sorrowfully 
 tailed after, wagging his thin, white beard in elderly 
 disapprobation. 
 
 Left alone with the big-jawed skipper for the 
 existence of Giles Scrymegeour was overlooked 
 Horneycraft suddenly weakened and bolted. 
 
 The moment he was gone, Captain Grant swooped 
 down upon Old Scryme. 
 
 " Listen to me, Master Scrymegeour," said he, 
 with wrath and scorn. " I've been sick of you for 
 twenty years. Now, I'm sick of your service. I 
 want you to understand from this minute that the 
 Thistle Down has cheated the customs for the last 
 time. And that's my last word. You can take your 
 own time to swallow it." 
 
 And he, too, marched out of the cabin. Giles 
 Scrymegeour sat for a full minute, wet and pallid 
 with fright. It was easy to see that the man's heart 
 was constitutionally weak. But in a moment his 
 terror passed and his breath, which had been blow- 
 ing through wide-parted bluish lips, began to draw 
 through his teeth. Into his eyes, too, came the accus- 
 tomed sheen of cunning. 
 
 " We'll see ! We'll see ! " he said, half aloud. 
 
 Then he gathered up the papers, stuffed them 
 in his pockets, and scurried up the stairs, for all 
 the world like a rat on a still-hunt. 
 
 Lieutenant Ben Larkin, in the meantime, had for-
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 gotten his wrath the moment he reached the deck. 
 The Thistle Down now presented an animated scene. 
 Although it was almost dark, the Morag folk had 
 taken advantage of the coming of the ship and the 
 fine autumn evening, to make a gala-night of it. 
 Lads and lasses and village worthies were swarming 
 aboard to welcome sons and lovers from foreign 
 shores, for in those days it was a far cry to France, 
 and especially to Bordeaux, which entailed the voyage 
 through the dreaded Bay of Biscay and up the 
 stream of the Garonne. And the foreign wonders 
 which the sailors brought to sleepy little Morag after 
 such a trip, aroused an excitement which was not 
 equaled even by the annual Highland games at 
 Inveraray. 
 
 But, although the picture charmed Lieutenant 
 Larkin the lasses in their Sunday finery and the 
 sailors with their white socks and knotted kerchiefs 
 the thing that most pleased his eye was the girl he 
 had seen in the cabin. 
 
 Grizel was about seventeen years old, still girlish, 
 but carrying herself with the modesty and inex- 
 plicable grace of dawning womanhood. She was 
 the nut-brown lass of song., with her glossy' hair, 
 honest, full, brown eyes, soft sun-tanned skin and 
 white teeth which, Ben swore to himself, were like 
 coral reefs and as dangerous to a sailor. She cut 
 a pretty figure in her short skirt, big-bowed shoes, 
 [32]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 bright-buttoned, sleeveless jacket and Tam-o'-Shan- 
 ter, as she kept step with strutting old Jack Cookson 
 on the poop-deck. 
 
 The coast-guard, of course, was monopolizing the 
 conversation, and anyone could have judged the 
 topic by the angle of the telescope under the arm- 
 stump and the way he pointed heroically to the 
 upper rigging of the schooner. One expected to see 
 the picture rounded off with a ball from the crow's- 
 nest of the Redoubtable and Nelson falling upon the 
 quarter-deck of the Thistle Down. 
 
 Larkin was waiting his chance to capture the 
 pretty lass, while pretending to be looking over the 
 ship's side, where a dozen rowboats crowded around 
 the revenue cutter, which was neatly manned by 
 bluejackets. A hand suddenly fell upon the lieu- 
 tenant's arm the stealthy, impressive, important 
 hand of Mr. Horneycraft. The collector's face 
 was still pale with anger, and when he spoke it 
 was in a spiteful undertone, full of omen for the 
 subject. 
 
 " I thank you, lieutenant, for your support in 
 the unpleasant incident downstairs," he said, with 
 quiet incision. " Nevertheless, I hope to impress 
 upon you that your mole-hill is my mountain. If 
 this person, Smuggle-erie " 
 
 Larkin's brows knitted irritably. 
 
 " If this Smuggle-erie," Mr. Horneycraft persisted 
 [33]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 calmly, " left the schooner, as it is admitted he did, 
 how did he go? swim? " 
 
 And Mr. Horneycraft, with a fine gesture of tri- 
 umph, waved his hands round at the schooner's boats, 
 which hung intact upon the davits. 
 
 At one glance Lieutenant Larkin knew that no 
 boat belonging to the schooner had, as yet, been 
 lowered. But he turned angrily upon Horneycraft. 
 
 " You are talking nonsense, sir ! " he cried. " Are 
 there not a dozen boats alongside, and 
 
 " He left in none of them ! " retorted Mr. Horney- 
 craft. " My inquiries have determined that. Be- 
 sides, I took the liberty of instructing your blue- 
 jackets before ' 
 
 " Indeed," said the lieutenant, his face flushing. 
 " Then I have no manner of doubt that the man 
 did not leave the ship after we came aboard." 
 
 " Well ? " sneered Mr. Horneycraft. 
 
 " Well ! " the lieutenant fairly shouted. " I sup- 
 pose, as you say, he swam ashore." 
 
 " Not necessarily," the revenue collector responded 
 sweetly. "Perhaps a boat met the Thistle Down 
 in the offing before she " 
 
 The lieutenant smiled. 
 
 "Quite possible, Mr. Horneycraft," he inter- 
 rupted ; " but I fancy you are trying to make facts 
 to fit your suspicions. Far be it from me " 
 
 He stopped short and his eyes suddenly widened 
 [34]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 with wonder. They had been conversing by the 
 gunwale, amidships, and not three paces from the 
 door of the cook's galley. 
 
 The lieutenant had suddenly turned to discover 
 the moribund Grogblossom looking straight at himself 
 and Horneycraft, and with an expression on his face 
 that betokened considerable interest in what he was 
 overhearing. But the moment his eyes met Larkin's, 
 Grogblossom's face took on its usual pig look and 
 he busied himself scouring a frying-pan, at the same 
 time whistling a tune with unusual rapidity. It 
 was the lively air of a quaint old Scotch song, and 
 after he had run through a verse, Grogblossom began 
 at the beginning again: 
 
 " Pease brose again, mither, pease brose again!" 
 
 Then an odd thing happened. From some other part 
 of the ship, the air of the second line was smartly 
 taken up: 
 
 " Ye feed me like a blackbird and me yer only wean! " 
 
 Grogblossom's whistle had stopped short to admit 
 the second line, but as soon as it was finished, his 
 fat lips pursed and he was off again with the third 
 and fourth lines. 
 
 " That's queer ! " thought Larkin. 
 
 He listened intently but, although Grogblossom 
 [35]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 went on whistling shrilly, the clever interpolation did 
 not recur, and presently the lieutenant was willing to 
 admit that his ear had played him a trick. 
 
 When he turned away, Horneycraft had vanished, 
 and at the same time Larkin saw the coast-guard 
 leave the poop. In a minute the gallant lieutenant 
 was at Grizel's side, apologizing for Mr. Horney- 
 craft's unseemly behavior in the cabin. 
 
 " Oh, everybody kens Mr. Horneycraft ! " she 
 said, in her frank, laughing Scotch tongue. 
 
 " And was it about the battle of the Nile, or 
 Trafalgar, that old Jack was holding forth? " 
 
 " Neither, Mr. Clever," said she. " He was telling 
 me about the time when he was stationed at Jamaica 
 place they make rum, sir waiting for the French, 
 by thunder ! and Nelson on the lookout with his tele- 
 scope, sir! She broke off her mimicry with a 
 peal of laughter. 
 
 " I knew he'd get Nelson in somewhere," said 
 Larkin, who, nevertheless, had a great respect for 
 the old sea-dog who had seen England's greatest hero 
 carried to the cock-pit. 
 
 " Tell me, captain," said she. " How many " 
 
 " Lieutenant," he corrected modestly. 
 
 " Well, you'll be an admiral some day," she said, 
 by way of comfort. "But tell me, how many 
 smugglers have you caught since you came to 
 Morag? " 
 
 [36]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Why, I have only been here a week," he pro- 
 tested. 
 
 " But ye havena answered my question," she per- 
 sisted mischievously. " How many smugglers have 
 ye caught? " 
 
 " None so far," he admitted. " But Mr. Horney- 
 craft is sure we are going to catch plenty before 
 long. In fact," he added with a chuckle, " he has 
 quite made up his mind that this Smuggle-erie is 
 the terrible Heather Bloom." 
 
 " Oh," she said, in alarm. " That's not so." 
 
 He tried to see her face in the dusk, but could 
 not. 
 
 " It's only a nickname," she said earnestly. " You 
 see, he had it when he was a little lad, and it's stuck 
 to him. Smuggle-erie's a game." 
 
 " A great game, indeed," he observed. " Tell me, 
 Miss Grizel, who is this Smuggle-erie? " 
 
 " Smuggle-erie ? " she echoed, after a perceptible 
 pause. If it had been lighter he would have seen 
 her color deepen. " Why, he's he's Smuggle-erie." 
 
 " I'm not much wiser." 
 
 " Well Smuggle-erie," she stammered, and the 
 queer name fell from her tongue with a quaint turn, 
 " Smuggle-erie's a nephew, in a way, to that man 
 Scrymegeour." 
 
 " Oh ! " he breathed comprehendingly. 
 
 " But Smuggle-erie's not like him, ye ken," she 
 [37]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 hastened to correct. " He's only a kind of nephew. 
 Smuggle-erie's he's he's very different ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Larkin once more, and this time the 
 comprehending breath had a tinge of disappointment 
 in it. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, which was, some- 
 how, awkward. 
 
 Ben Larkin looked out over the dim, calm Firth of 
 Clyde. He did not need to be told who Smuggle-erie 
 was, as related to Grizel Grant. 
 
 And he felt more lonely over the knowledge than 
 he had done over anything since he came to sleepy 
 Morag. He supposed it was one of those village 
 matches a girl allotted to marry a man whom she 
 respected only because she had become used to the 
 idea of looking upon him as her future husband. He 
 was probably some rascally sailor, stupidly romantic, 
 brutally healthy, and notoriously evil. It seemed 
 a pity a shame. This girl, Grizel, was worthy of 
 a better fate. But, of course, she would marry the 
 sailor and, in time, she would develop into the long- 
 tongued, slovenly matron that was so characteristic 
 of Morag. 
 
 Something interrupted Larkin's train of pessimism. 
 It was a boat gliding in toward the southern end 
 of the cove from the open firth. He looked at the 
 craft for a moment. The shapeless mass of the hull 
 did not impress him until he suddenly noticed the 
 [38]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 movement of her rowers and observed with a mental 
 start that the craft glided as silently as a phantom. 
 
 " What's that ? " he asked sharply, breaking the 
 pause in a way that startled the girl. 
 
 " That ? " she said stupidly, her eye following the 
 line of his extended arm. " That's a boat." 
 
 " A boat of course. What boat ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? " she retorted stiffly. 
 " Most like it's a fisherman." 
 
 " A fisherman," he said, half to himself. " It's 
 more like a smuggler. Why are the oars muffled? " 
 
 " Exactly ! " said Mr. Horneycraf t, coming up 
 behind. " Possibly the lieutenant, having done his 
 best to obstruct my business, will now attend to his 
 own." 
 
 Larkin felt the blood rush to his face, but he had 
 no answer ready, except that of action. 
 
 " Mr. Horneycraft," he said sternly, " send Jack 
 Cookson ashore at once. His orders are to find this 
 man, Smuggle-erie, if he is in Morag. If not " 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no ! " cried Grizel suddenly, as if 
 she had been hurt. " You are wrong ! You are 
 wrong ! " 
 
 " My duty, madam," he replied shortly. " Rest 
 assured of him if he is where he ought to be." 
 
 With that he left her hurriedly and dropped into 
 the cutter. 
 
 A moment later she heard his voice raised in sharp 
 [39]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 command and then came the splash of six oars strik- 
 ing the water simultaneously. Something new in 
 her life a dread of the indefinable, a sense of in- 
 comprehensible evil surrounded her suddenly. The 
 penny whistle which Grogblossom was blowing, lust- 
 ily, to the tune of " Pease brose again, mither," 
 seemed fraught with this mysterious terror. She 
 leaned over the stern of the schooner and stared at 
 the dim shadow of the strange boat, and her fear 
 rose in her throat as the cutter shot out to the 
 rhythmic music of trained oars. She heard her 
 father's step behind her, and his voice bidding her 
 get ready for the shore, but her response was a half- 
 hysterical cry: 
 
 " Father ! They say Smuggle-erie's in yon boat, 
 and it's a smuggler." 
 
 " Who said so ? " Grant asked sharply. 
 
 " The lieutenant Mr. Horneycraft." 
 
 " Keep quiet, child ! " he said sternly. " This is 
 mere blethering. You and I are going ashore to the 
 little home for supper." 
 
 His hand rested on her shoulder, but he made no 
 move to lead her away. Indeed, he stood by her side 
 and, in silence, watched the revenue cutter sweep 
 toward the headland called the Bull Rock. That 
 seemed to be the point toward which the mysterious 
 boat was moving. The latter craft was coming 
 straight in from the firth, and as the Thistle Down 
 [40]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 lay at anchor near the north end of the bay, the 
 courses of the two boats, when joined, would form 
 a right angle. The boat with the muffled oars had 
 about a quarter of a mile to go. To intercept her 
 the cutter had more than half a mile to cover, but 
 allowing for the superior speed and manning of the 
 latter, the result of the race provided interesting 
 speculation. 
 
 Mr. Horneycraft was another spectator of the 
 contest, but his eyes did not linger on it as much 
 as upon the crew of the Thistle Down. 
 
 Grogblossom had laid aside his penny whistle. He 
 and the Red Mole, with a few others, were loitering 
 about the larboard side of the schooner, furtively 
 watching the cutter and her quarry. 
 
 " Strange ! " reflected Mr. Horneycraft gleefully. 
 " Not a man in a hundred would have noticed that 
 boat, and yet they are staring as if their lives de- 
 pended upon the result." And he smiled the smile 
 of self-satisfaction. 
 
 Another witness was Giles Scrymegeour. Behind 
 the mizzenmast he stood, washing his hands in in- 
 visible water. Once or twice he essayed to walk the 
 deck, but to his guilty imagination it seemed that 
 the whole world was watching the race, whereas Mr. 
 Horneycraft's estimate of those who could have ob- 
 served the incident was, indeed, not far wrong. But 
 to Giles Scrymegeour it was as if every eye was upon 
 [41]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 him to see how he enjoyed the suspense. He crept 
 back into the shadow of the mast and stayed there 
 until the end came. 
 
 But to none was the upshot fraught with such 
 tragedy as to Grizel Grant and her father. Minutes 
 passed and they were still standing on the poop, his 
 hand on her shoulder and his breath drawing deep 
 and strong. She noticed a growing pressure of his 
 hand, but ascribed it to her own strange agitation. 
 Straight as an arrow the cutter shot toward the Bull 
 Rock, and to that same point glided the silent boat 
 from the sea. Now they were nearing. But two 
 hundred yards divided the rock from the revenue 
 cutter, and less than one hundred from the craft 
 with the muffled oars. The cutter dashed through 
 the water; the strange boat's speed increased. Now 
 the respective distances from the rock were seventy- 
 five yards and forty yards; now fifty yards and 
 thirty ; now thirty yards and less than twenty ; fifteen 
 yards and the mysterious craft shot toward the 
 haven in a last effort to evade the cutter. 
 
 Grizel's hand gripped her father's arm and a cry 
 choked her. The skipper's breathing came to her 
 ears in quick, heavy spasms. His hand gripped and 
 tightened on her shoulder. 
 
 Between the cutter and the Bull Rock stood ten 
 yards. 
 
 Even on the Thistle Down those who were watch- 
 [42]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 ing could hear the voice of the lieutenant crying: 
 " Now, my lads ! " 
 
 A few more strolls and the strange boat would 
 be intercepted. In any event she must be captured 
 before her bows grated on the beach, if indeed, there 
 was any beach within a hundred yards of that great 
 sea-bowlder. 
 
 A groan burst from her father's lips. 
 
 Grizel saw the boats seemingly merged together 
 for a moment in the angle of meeting ; then 
 
 " Thank God ! " said Captain Grant, in a tense 
 whisper. 
 
 Grizel could hardly believe her eyes. The mys- 
 terious craft had suddenly vanished as if engulfed 
 in the sea or in the great rock. At the same moment 
 a command sounded over the darkling bay and the 
 revenue cutter was seen to run on her own impetus 
 with her oars trailing idly in the water. 
 
 " Gone ! " Grizel cried in amazement. 
 
 In the stern of the cutter Lieutenant Ben Larkin 
 sat stupefied. 
 
 " Gone ! " he gasped. Then awaking, like a man 
 who realizes that he has been the victim of some 
 optical illusion, he cried sharply to his men : " Which 
 way?" 
 
 " Beggin' your pardon, sir," said the bowman, all 
 in a shake. " That waren't no real boat, sir, beggin' 
 your pardon, sir." 
 
 [43]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " What rubbish is this ! " thundered Larkin. 
 " Are you all blind ? " Then, becoming aware that 
 he was losing his temper, he suddenly altered his 
 tone. " Something wrong here, men ! Come, there 
 must be a passage." 
 
 At his command the cutter moved slowly into the 
 shadow of the great black rock, which arose straight 
 and slippery from the sea. Behind it, a semicircular 
 passage divided it from the mainland, where again 
 a landing was forbidden by a perpendicular precipice. 
 In the unnatural gloom between these formidable 
 ramparts, no break or inlet was to be seen where 
 a boat could have so mysteriously vanished. Yet, 
 when continual grazing of the rocks on either side 
 of the cutter suggested a prudent cessation of oar- 
 ing, neither sight nor sound was to be seen nor 
 heard to suggest the presence of any living thing. 
 The waters gurgled under the barnacled sea-walls, 
 and as the waves drew back, the tresses of sea-weed 
 dripped and trailed like wet hair. 
 
 One of the men uttered an exclamation of super- 
 stitious fear. The sense of the ghostly spread, and 
 when the command to back out of the dangerous 
 waterway came it was obeyed with alacrity. 
 
 Once outside, the men leaned on their oars, while 
 Lieutenant Larkin stared unbelievingly at the Bull 
 Rock and the cliffs before him. 
 
 "It's a trick!" he exclaimed. 
 [44]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 What he did not say was that the truth had sud- 
 denly dawned upon him. He was at the door of 
 the Heather Bloom mystery, and all that was needed 
 was the magic sesame that would reveal the inside 
 of the whole business. 
 
 Of one thing he was certain without knowing why : 
 that Smuggle-erie was in that vanishing boat. 
 
 Perhaps it was the reiterations of Horneycraft; 
 perhaps the agitation of Grizel when the possibility 
 was suggested; perhaps his conviction was due to 
 the mere fact that the man left the ship before she 
 dropped anchor; yet, it was more likely that his 
 sense of certainty was the result of the consecutive 
 facts and suggestions. One thing which he did not 
 realize, however, and which was singing confusedly 
 in the subconscious recesses of his mind, was the 
 association of the tune which he had heard Grog- 
 blossom render in the galley and which had thrilled 
 through the dusk as the cutter shot out from the 
 Thistle Down. 
 
 He gave the command to row back to the schooner, 
 and his eyes almost involuntarily turned to the bay 
 shore where the road ran through the dark belt of 
 firs. The land at that point was as dark as sepia, 
 but to Larkin's imagination it seemed as if he could 
 discern a shadow, shaped like a man, running. 
 
 As the cutter finally shot under the hull of the 
 Thistle Down, he was filled with the notion that he 
 [45]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 had seen another boat moving from the shore to the 
 starboard of the schooner. 
 
 But it was apparently a creation of his eager 
 brain, for when he climbed to the deck and made 
 his way to the cabin, old Jack Cookson arose to 
 meet him with a hearty " What, ho ! " 
 
 " Come aboard, adm'ral ! " said he, waving his hand 
 to an eagle-eyed, sunburned young viking, who 
 stood up with a mischievous devil-take-me grin as 
 Larkin turned to him. " Orders is orders, sir. This 
 is the man, Smuggle-erie." 
 
 " Where did you find him ? " asked Larkin, meet- 
 ing the eye of the young sailor with never a tremor 
 of his own. 
 
 " On the beach, sir," said the coast-guard, saluting 
 with one finger. " Daffing wi' the lasses, by thun- 
 der!" 
 
 Beaten ! The word sparkled, but without malice, 
 in Smuggle-erie's eyes, as clearly as if he had chuckled 
 it. Ben Larkin swallowed his pride with difficulty. 
 Then, acting upon impulse, he held out his hand; 
 for at the first glance, the man in him had recognized 
 the man in Smuggle-erie. And as the two men 
 gripped, it was with an unspoken understanding of 
 mutual appreciation and mutual war. 
 
 [46]
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 GRANT'S CONFESSION 
 
 " GROGBLOSSOM," Smuggle-erie said next morning, 
 " I'm going ashore. How do I look? " 
 
 He gave himself a little shake to make his shore 
 togs set straight, and pulled his usually mobile face 
 into the fixed smile of a portrait. Grogblossom came 
 out of the galley, wiped his face, and, as he scanned 
 the young viking before him, drew his mouth corners 
 into the curves of his cheeks in the effort of judg- 
 ment. 
 
 " Ye'll do ! Ye'll do ! " he finally announced, nod- 
 ding his head. And at that Smuggle-erie's pose re- 
 laxed. " It's a bonny hanky," observed Grogblos- 
 som, referring to the spotted kerchief, which 
 Smuggle-erie had spent a good half-hour tying care- 
 fully into a careless knot. " Ye'll hae dressed yersel' 
 to visit yer Uncle Giles, I tak' it," added Grogblos- 
 som, with a twinkle of his little pig eyes, for Smuggle- 
 erie's attire was in the nature of an event. 
 
 " Of course," said Smuggle-erie, grinning. " I'm 
 going to sit on his counter and help him brush the 
 flies off the cheese. Poor man, he's lacking sleep since 
 [47]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 he forgot to file the edge off a guinea he gave the 
 Laird." 
 
 " Mv respecks to the lass," said Grogblossom, and 
 added thoughtfully, " if ye should happen t'see her." 
 
 "I will that," laughed Smuggle-erie, dropping 
 down the rope ladder to the skiff alongside. 
 
 " Man," said Grogblossom, lazily leaning over the 
 gunwale, " I weesh ye'd tak' that Red Heid an' have 
 him get his hair cut. It bothers me." 
 
 " He has something else on hand," said Smuggle- 
 erie with a wink, " and I'm thinking that with blue- 
 jackets and Horneycrafts and brand-new admirals, 
 Red Mole and the wheen of us'll have our hands full 
 for a while, leastways till this schooner clears. So 
 long, Groggy. Keep sober." 
 
 And away shot the skiff over the calm morning 
 waters of Morag Bay, impelled by Smuggle-erie's 
 lusty arms. Grogblossom watched the knifelike split 
 of the water in the skiff's wake. 
 
 " That young," he sighed, " and that wickit. Sae 
 fu' o' hope an' strength an' a' life afore 'im. Losh, 
 who's yon in the ither skiff? " he said aloud, as Smug- 
 gle-erie's little craft shot across the bows of a similar 
 one, rowed by a young man in gray tweeds. " It 
 looks like yon lufftenant, but he's cast off his brass 
 buttons. Might as weel. Sodgers an' sailor-sodgers 
 is cuddies, chasin' after evildoers wi' brass bands 
 and brass buttons and brass tiliscopes an 5 blue an' 
 [48]
 
 Grant's Confession 
 
 green lichts. Losh! look at that young deevil, 
 wavin' his hand to the lufftenant as if he'd been 
 at dinner wi' him the night before, instead o' rurniin' 
 for his very life ! " 
 
 Grogblossom sighed, and the ever-ready sentimental 
 tear trickled from his left eye. 
 
 " That's the way o' him. Pullin' the deevil's tail, 
 as ye might say puttin' a match to gunpowder t'see 
 if it'll blow up. But it's the way o' youth the way 
 o' youth ! It's a wunner to me how bairns grow up 
 alive, what wi' fallin' doon-stairs, tumblin' in ponds, 
 eatin' sour apples, an' sich-like. But it's the way o' 
 youth the way o' youth ! " And Grogblossom, com- 
 pletely overcome by the appalling optimism of some 
 of God's creatures, waddled into the galley and, hav- 
 ing reconnoitered the deck, larboard and starboard, 
 helped himself to a pan of grog and settled down in 
 reverie. 
 
 Smuggle-erie, in the meantime, shot past Lieutenant 
 Larkin, whose presence in civilian attire and in Jack 
 Cookson's skiff, was as large print in an open book to 
 him. 
 
 " A fine morning, adm'ral I " he hailed. 
 
 " Very fine," Larkin replied, feathering his 
 oar calmly as he passed across Smuggle-erie's 
 track. 
 
 " There's good flounder spearing in the bay ! " 
 shouted Smuggle-erie. 
 
 [49]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Thanks ; I'm after smugglers ! " was the candid 
 retort. 
 
 Smuggle-erie laughed, wished him luck, and pres- 
 ently his skiff was out of earshot. When the young 
 sailor beached his boat, he shook the folds out of his 
 breeches, smoothed his jacket, gave his kerchief a 
 dainty wiggle, and set off through the one and only 
 street of Morag, waving his hand to passers-by and 
 receiving many a cheery salute ; for Smuggle-erie was 
 a favorite. 
 
 There was that about the lad which was lovable, 
 although in the very reckless good-humor for which 
 he was liked, a shrewd judge would have marked a 
 character whose ruling principle was the line of least 
 resistance. He loved that which loved him, and hated 
 that which caused him discomfort. 
 
 In appearance, he was all of a sailor, as he is drawn 
 by the idealist, and this was due, probably, to the 
 fact that he was something more than a sailor. 
 Neither he nor any man aboard the Thistle Down but 
 carried himself with an air of independence not to be 
 remarked in your true seaman before the mast. There 
 was nothing of the hang-dog air which comes from the 
 haunting fear of the mate's fist. Smuggle-erie's car- 
 riage was that of a man who loved his employ, and his 
 quick eye and square brow indicated that his employ 
 was not all of the hand and back. And aside from 
 all this, there was a certain air of nobility about the 
 [50]
 
 Grant's Confession 
 
 youth's mannerisms which compelled attention. In 
 the middle of his irresponsibility, it would flash out in 
 a glance of the eye, or in a sudden fleeting expression 
 of his ever-changing face. 
 
 His first stop in the village was at Giles Scryme- 
 geour's shop, a half-store, half-office, half -warehouse. 
 Bales and barrels of flour, fish, hides, liquors, and 
 what-not, which were being landed from the schooner, 
 strewed the bit of paving before the place. In tHe 
 middle of the confusion Old Scryme danced about, 
 scolding, directing, nosing, and grumbling. As 
 Smuggle-erie hove in sight, the old miser tried 
 to appear as busy as he could, for ever since 
 a certain night, twelve years before, the situa- 
 tion between guardian and ward had changed, and 
 Scryme nursed a silent hatred, not unmingled 
 with fear, of his loud-talking, reckless-tongued 
 " nephew." 
 
 Smuggle-erie, on the other hand, cared no more for 
 the old scoundrel than for a dead snake. With an 
 irreverent " Morning, nunky ! " he sailed into the 
 ahop and vaulted over the counter. Down on the old 
 iron box he sat, and taking a gully-knife from his 
 pocket, began to cut chunks from an adjacent cheese 
 and cram them into his mouth. 
 
 " That's good cheese, nunky," said he. 
 
 " Be canny wi't, man ! " Old Scryme protested. 
 " Ye'd think I got it for nothing." 
 [51]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Next to nothing, nunky. This is what you call 
 Gowdy cheese, is it no? " 
 
 " Go away," grumbled Old Scryme. " Can ye no 
 see I'm full of beez'ness? " 
 
 " I'm not bothering you," said Smuggle-erie, tak- 
 ing several apples from a barrel, squeezing them into 
 his pockets, and digging his teeth into one. 
 
 " Wha gied ye permeession tae eat into ma stock- 
 in-trade like that? " whined Giles Scrymegeour. 
 
 Smuggle-erie stared at his " uncle " for a moment, 
 his eyes wide with mock astonishment. 
 
 " Permeession ? Permeession ! " he gasped, then 
 burst out in a roar of rich laughter. " Nunky ! 
 Nunky ! You'll be the death o' me." 
 
 " Aye, will I, some o' the days ! " snarled the old 
 man. 
 
 " That's strange," said Smuggle-erie, reaching out 
 his hand and taking a fine silk scarf off the counter. 
 " D'ye ken, nunky, I mind when I was a wee bit lad 
 and slept in the garret up-stairs, I used to think 
 how some night I'd crawl down and slit your throat 
 that's a pretty kerchief, nunky. How'd it suit me? 
 and after that, force open your old iron box here 
 and take all your guineas and give all the papers 
 and things back to the poor folk you squeezed 'em 
 from." 
 
 " Ye ye oh, ye rapscallion ! " hissed Old Scryme, 
 as his dutiful ward stood up before a cheap looking- 
 [52]
 
 Grant's Confession 
 
 glass and proceeded to tie the silk scarf in place of 
 his own more modest kerchief. 
 
 " Was it a viper I nursed in ma basom? " cried 
 Giles Scrymegeour. " Oh, ye ye me that tuk ye 
 oot o' the poorhouse, where ye'd ha' been brought up 
 on skilly an' water, an' " 
 
 " Say, nunky honest now ! Why did you take me 
 out of the poorhouse? Wasn't it after ye'd skinned 
 my old man to the bone that your conscience got the 
 better o' ye? " 
 
 " Skinned yer father to the bone? " shrieked the 
 miser. " It was beez'ness, I tell ye, pure beez'ness, 
 and it was nae fault o' mine if yer father was a fool ! " 
 
 Smuggle-erie's face never changed at the mention 
 of what would have roused many a man's blood. He 
 had never known his father, or his mother. Some- 
 times he wondered idly if it was really a convenience 
 to have parents ; but never having known or dreamed 
 of any tie that would not have brought hated re- 
 straint with it, he had long ceased to trouble himself 
 as to the ethics of the business. 
 
 " It was kind of you to take care of me in my in- 
 fant years, nunky," said he, standing back to see how 
 the scarf looked. 
 
 " Kindness ! " whined Old Scryme. " It was 
 charity charity ! " 
 
 " Aye, aye ! " said Smuggle-erie, helping himself to 
 a pocketful of tobacco plugs ; " as Grogblossom would 
 [53]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 say, ' Charity suffereth long and is kind.' By-by, 
 nunky ! I'm off to see Grizel, and if the breeze is in 
 the right quarter, there's going to be a wedding in 
 Morag, and then nunky is going to do the handsome 
 by his little nephew eh, nunky ? " And the dis- 
 respectful young rascal poked Old Scryme in the ribs 
 in a way that nearly made the miser faint. 
 
 " Easy, lad ! Easy ! " he screamed, for if there was 
 one human trait about Giles Scrymegeour it was that 
 he was ticklish. But he turned his hysteria to ac- 
 count, for he suddenly said confidingly to his ward : 
 
 " Aye, aye, lad aye, aye ! I have nae word to say 
 agin' the lass. She's a right sens'ble girl an' 
 thrifty, sir thrifty ! If ye marry her, Dickie, lad, 
 
 I'd ' He stopped before he committed himself to 
 
 a promise. " There's nae sayin', lad, but Uncle Giles 
 might come doon handsome. Imphm ! " And the old 
 rogue grinned and poked Smuggle-erie in the ribs. 
 
 " Nunky's very kind," said Smuggle-erie in his 
 inimitable way. " Very thoughtful, too, is nunky. 
 Once Smuggle-erie was married to Grizel, it would be 
 a family affair, in a manner of speaking hey? " 
 And with another pass at Old Scryme's ribs he 
 marched out, leaving his " uncle " fuming with sudden 
 rage to think that his little scheme to tighten his grip 
 on Captain John Grant was so patent to the shrewd 
 Smuggle-erie. 
 
 That young disrespecter of persons sallied along 
 [54]
 
 Grant's Confession 
 
 the village street, with the looted kerchief fluttering 
 in the breeze. Everybody had a word for him, espe- 
 cially the lasses, most of whom would have given a lot 
 for Smuggle-erie's eye. But Smuggle-erie's pole-star 
 was further out of the village, in a little cottage set 
 in the middle of a kail-yard. There was a flagstaff a 
 few yards from the front door, and at the base of it, 
 on a rude circular bench, sat Grizel. 
 
 " What, ho ! Sweetheart ! " he hailed. " Catch ! " 
 And he tossed an apple over the gate to her. Out 
 went her hands. The apple slipped through them 
 and landed in her lap. 
 
 " Miss ! " he cried. " What ever would a lass do 
 without skirts?" And he gathered her up in his 
 arms and gave her the quick peck on the cheek of a 
 lover who is not very deeply involved. 
 
 " Have another apple, lass. Stolen apples always 
 sweeter, ye ken. Grizel, if you say the word, I'm 
 ready to marry you." 
 
 " Oh, yes? " was all she said. 
 
 What could she say? Not that she had any great 
 objection to marrying Smuggle-erie, but, to a girl, 
 marrying is one of the great things in life, and any 
 girl is justified in feeling disappointment that the 
 matter should be broached and dismissed in the toss of 
 an apple. 
 
 " Don't you want to marry me ? " he asked, produc- 
 ing an apple for himself. 
 
 [55]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " I'm no in the least particular," said she. " And 
 as long as a girl feels that way, I'm thinkin' there's 
 no great hurry, Smuggle-erie." 
 
 There was a little tinge of bitterness in her tone, 
 and her lover was quick to notice it. He turned and 
 looked straight into her face into her brown eyes. 
 Before his keen, burning gaze, something akin to 
 hero-worship swept through her veins. There was 
 none like Smuggle-erie in Morag. He was the prize. 
 Besides, he was a sailor, and handsome, and strong, 
 and he carried all his matters, even his love-making, 
 with such cool confidence that it was difficult not to 
 go with the rush of him. 
 
 " Come, lass, ye love me, don't you ? " as if such 
 a doubt were hardly worthy of discussion. 
 
 " Oh, yes of course," was the quiet response. 
 
 " Maybe ye like somebody better. Who could it 
 be, now? " he said, addressing an invisible third per- 
 son. " There isn't a better man for my age in the 
 parish. If you think so, show him to me, Grizel, and 
 him and me will have it out oursel's. Maybe it's the 
 young adm'ral wi' the brass buttons." 
 
 " That it is not," said Grizel with a laugh. 
 " Grizel Grant's not for the likes of him." 
 
 "Oho! That's it, eh? Brass buttons !" Smug- 
 gle-erie mocked. " Grizel Grant's not for the likes of 
 him? Then she's not for the likes o' me, for I'm as 
 good a man." 
 
 [56]
 
 There was a little fling of anger in his tone. She 
 put her hand upon his head and crumpled his curling, 
 fair hair. 
 
 " Dear old Smuggle-erie ! Of course, I'll marry 
 you when it's time. But you mustn't be jealous like 
 that." 
 
 " Me jealous! " he protested. 
 
 " Why, you are ! " said she. " But I'm not such a 
 fool as some lasses to give my heart to a man because 
 he wears brass buttons and gold lace. But, Smuggle- 
 erie, it's natural, is it no, for a lass to like it ? " As 
 she was speaking, Smuggle-erie was quite unconscious 
 of the fine silk kerchief which he had been at such 
 pains to tie around his neck. 
 
 " All right, lass ! " he cried, tossing his head and 
 dismissing the passing cloud at will. " Give us a 
 kiss." 
 
 He flung his arm round her neck in true sailor 
 fashion, and planted a kiss on her cheek with a loud 
 smack. 
 
 " Smuggle-erie ! " cried a deep voice from the cot- 
 tage. 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir! " replied the lover, jumping to his 
 feet. 
 
 Captain John Grant stood in the doorway of the 
 cottage. His eyes were heavy, his face pale, and 
 his brow lowering. It was easy to see that he had 
 passed a sleepless night. He beckoned Smuggle- 
 
 [57]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 erie with a toss of his thumb over his shoulder, and 
 said: 
 
 " Grizel, haven't you a bit to do this morning? " 
 
 The captain led Smuggle-erie into the parlor of the 
 cottage, locked the door, and walked to the window 
 with the remark: 
 
 " This is not the time for that sort of fooling, lad." 
 
 Smuggle-erie shrugged his shoulders and sat down 
 in a chair by the fireless hearth, for it was still warm 
 weather. 
 
 He gave the captain a curious glance as he noticed 
 that Grant was staring through the window with his 
 hands behind his back. 
 
 "Aye, aye, sir?" he suggested, after a long 
 silence. 
 
 " See here, lad," said Grant, turning around sud- 
 denly and beginning to walk up and down the room, 
 " I'm glad you've come up this morning. I was want- 
 ing to have a talk with someone yourself for choice. 
 
 " I've known you twenty years, lad. Twelve years 
 ago that mistake o' nature, called Giles Scrymegeour, 
 would ha' drowned you like a blind kitten ower the 
 Bull Rock, if I hadn't had a word to say. Ye needn't 
 thank me for that. It might ha' been as well for you 
 if I'd let him have his way." 
 
 The man stopped short in his sea-watch tread and 
 rapped his knuckles on the table in the gesture so 
 characteristic of him when strongly moved. 
 [58]
 
 Grant's Confession 
 
 " Smuggle-erie, I'm sick of it ! Ashamed of it ! I 
 looked through the window a minute ago and saw you 
 and that poor lass on the bench, and I was more 
 ashamed of it than ever. Not that it is my mind, 
 Smuggle-erie, that you should marry my lass, Grizel. 
 I do not say ' aye ' or * no ' to that, for there is no 
 time for it now. You're as good a lad as any I know, 
 and a great deal better than most, but " 
 
 He stopped, confused. He had lost the drift of 
 his words in his agitation and eagerness to get them 
 out. 
 
 " Smuggle-erie, I'll tell ye something," he began 
 again, his voice deep with the thing that was grip- 
 ping at his heart. " Ye mind one night last week in 
 the channel, I threw Grogblossom down the com- 
 panion? (It's all right now. I gave him a pound 
 of tobacco). But no doubt you wondered at it. I 
 am a hard man, but not a violent one. Twelve years 
 ago on that very night I saved your neck, lad, in the 
 lodge by the Laird's gate, and half an hour later, 
 lad, I held my ain lass's hand, my wife, Smuggle-erie 
 and 
 
 " I can't tell it to ye, lad. I'd make a bairn o' 
 myself. But while I don't say it killed her, it helped, 
 it helped ! " 
 
 Smuggle-erie shifted uneasily in his seat. Grant 
 walked to the window and looked out. The landscape 
 was bright with the autumn sunshine, yet he saw 
 
 [59]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 nothing but a blur. He began to speak without 
 turning his head. His voice was quiet, but there were 
 pauses in his speech. 
 
 " After she died, I went bad. Before that I had 
 pursued the business as an honest man, for nothing 
 could teach me convince me that a government 
 had a right to tax a people for its food, its drink, its 
 clothing. But after she died, I went at it like a mad- 
 man. I loved the very worst of it. It helped me 
 forget. Our very name was a terror, for the daring 
 of what we did at times. 
 
 " I hadn't meant to tell you this, lad I mean, all 
 this. But it's too big a thing to let out in driblets. 
 It's like a leak, lad Tut ! What am I saying? 
 
 " Three years ago that lass was playing on the 
 doorstep just playing. I don't know what it was 
 maybe the way she tossed her hair back, or something 
 but it's been like a nightmare ever since. I'm not 
 a religious man Heaven forgive me for even speak- 
 ing of it but it's a weight on my soul, black as that 
 soul is, and I've determined to end it." 
 
 " You mean, you'll retire ? " suggested Smuggle- 
 erie. 
 
 " It's a mild way to put it," sneered Grant. " I 
 mean that the Thistle Down will not leave port again 
 with John Grant as master. The fear of death is on 
 me, man not the physical fear but the horror, the 
 shame of my girl's eyes. I saw it last night. Some- 
 [60]
 
 Grant's Confession 
 
 thing happened on the schooner. You know what. 
 The strain would have melted iron, and I cried out 
 in my agony. Her hand was on my arm, lad. And 
 when I cried out, she looked at me and I saw what 
 I swear I will not see in her eyes again for all the 
 world." 
 
 Smuggle-erie started up, roused by the man's 
 vehemence. He looked at the white, drawn face of 
 the giant before him and wondered. 
 
 " Captain," he said, " you've played the game too 
 long. Take a rest. I'll take the ship out Sunday 
 week if the stuff's ready. You know me." 
 
 " I know you, lad," said Captain Grant, a quaver 
 of regret in his voice. " I'd trust you to the last 
 card. But I've spoken the word. The Thistle Down 
 has made her last trip under me and mine. As for 
 you, y'are a free man, but if you engage again in the 
 contraband, independent of me " he lightly rapped 
 the table with his knuckles " you are no man for my 
 lass." 
 
 Smuggle-erie made no response. It is probable 
 that the whole thing was beyond his complete under- 
 standing. He could understand, in a measure, the 
 man's sorrow over the loss of his wife; he could, too, 
 understand his fear of Grizel's scorn; but what he 
 failed to grasp in any degree was why the smuggling 
 exploits should have killed his wife ; why they should 
 arouse Grizel's scorn; why, in short, there was 
 [61]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 anything to be ashamed of at all in cheating his 
 majesty's revenue. Was not his majesty's revenue 
 an institution which it was every man's duty to 
 cheat ? 
 
 But one thing Smuggle-erie was shrewd enough to 
 see at once. Grant's nerve had failed. Whether the 
 skipper feared for himself, or for the lass, Smug- 
 gle-erie did not trouble to think; he only saw as 
 clearly as daylight that the coming of the naval 
 lieutenant and his men to reenforce Horneycraft and 
 the regular coast-guard, was the finishing touch to 
 the man's remorse. 
 
 Grant was distrustful of Scrymegeour, too, and 
 well he might be. They were safe as long as they 
 kept their mouths shut and their nerves taut, but let 
 one of their number show the white feather at the 
 first shot, and the whole gang was in peril. 
 
 " It certainly was a tight squeeze," said Smuggle- 
 erie with a shrug. " We could hear their breathing, 
 and they could have heard ours if we hadn't held it. 
 But a miss is as good as a mile." 
 
 " But after last night, do you think they will let us 
 rest? " asked Grant sharply. " Not if I know the 
 revenue, or judge a young officer who has a reputa- 
 tion to make. If it was Cookson or any old-timer 
 who is all talk and no active zeal, I would snap my 
 fingers, but unless I'm a fool, that young officer is 
 grubbing around the rock at this minute, and he will 
 [62]
 
 Grant's Confession 
 
 keep on grubbing until he finds out what has become 
 of that boat." 
 
 " You're a good guesser," said Smuggle-erie, smil- 
 ing. " He went exploring this morning in old Jack 
 Cookson's skiff." 
 
 The announcement had a bad effect upon Grant. 
 He gripped the edge of the table and stared at the 
 young sailor. 
 
 " So already ! " he almost groaned. " You saw 
 him?" 
 
 " He'll find nothing," said Smuggle-erie assur- 
 ingly. " It is full tide. Now, if he'd taken a lamp 
 last night he might have seen wonders." 
 
 The captain sighed his relief and went back to the 
 window. 
 
 " Come to think of it, though," added Smuggle- 
 erie, " I think I'll go and clear the coast." 
 
 " Do, man do ! " Grant pleaded. " There must 
 not be a sign not a sign." 
 
 Smuggle-erie arose and prepared to go. As he 
 passed through the parlor door, he glanced back at 
 Captain John Grant. The big sea-master was again 
 staring out of the window, and the younger man 
 thought he heard him saying, half to himself : 
 
 " So ! They could hear them breathing hear 
 them breathing ! " 
 
 [63]
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHIRLED INTO THE UNKNOWN 
 
 WHEN Lieutenant Ben Larkin, rowing across the 
 bay in Cookson's skiff, passed Smuggle-erie, as the 
 young sailor was rowing ashore, he felt amused at 
 their passage of words, but more amused at Smuggle- 
 erie's gay attire. Whatever position toward each 
 other fate had decreed for them, the lieutenant would 
 have been willing to admit that he, at least, bore no 
 ill-feeling toward his opponent. He wondered what 
 Smuggle-erie meant by " good flounder-spearing." 
 It was sarcasm, of course, for Smuggle-erie must 
 know where the skiff was bound for. 
 
 Larkin, on his side, did not need to be told Smug- 
 gle-erie's destination. The jaunty angle of the sailor 
 cap and the gayety of the fluttering kerchief, con- 
 jured before the lieutenant's mind the face of Grizel, 
 a young lady in whom Larkin himself felt a growing 
 interest, not altogether unalloyed with suspicion. 
 
 For himself, he adopted no subterfuge, but rowed 
 
 toward that point of the Bull Rock where he had last 
 
 seen the smugglers' craft. This was on the side of 
 
 the rock farthest from Morag village. The height 
 
 [64]
 
 Whirled into the Unknown 
 
 of the Bull Rock itself and the landward cliffs ob- 
 structed all but a very small view of the passage at 
 either end. 
 
 At that time, indeed, Ben Larkin was not sure that 
 the rock was an island. From such inquiries as he 
 had had time to make since his interest was aroused in 
 the matter, he had learned only that no boats ever 
 went there. It was too dangerous at low tide, and at 
 high tide the water barely covered the reefs. 
 
 Besides that, it was an uncanny place. There was 
 the legend of the black bull, of course, and not long 
 before a boy had been drowned there and his body 
 had never floated ashore. Between the reefs in the 
 narrow passage, the water sank to a great depth, 
 and if it so happened that a storm rose when the 
 tide was half-full, the people of Morag could hear 
 the water booming as it was forced into these rock- 
 pots, and see it spout high in the air as the pressure 
 was relieved. 
 
 As Ben Larkin shipped one of his oars and pre- 
 pared to paddle with the other, the evil name of the 
 place seemed a libel for once. There was an enchant- 
 ment about the majestic, silent gray walls, with their 
 ancient, gray sheathing of barnacles ; the darker islet 
 rock with its smooth, slippery, water-worn sides, 
 draped with slimy tresses of sea-grass; and between 
 them the smooth, dark winding lane of still water. 
 
 The lieutenant drew a deep breath of admiration, 
 [65]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 and stood up in the boat with his dripping oar-blade 
 raised above the water. For a moment he was part 
 of the picture. It seemed a desecration to b.eak the 
 silence of this sea-temple, or to ruffle its carpet of 
 still waters. He dropped on his knees and rested his 
 chin on the gunwale of the skiff. Only a few inches 
 below the surface, the fangs of the reefs protruded 
 from either side of the passage, like the green teeth 
 of a giant about to close. Between them one could 
 look down through fathoms into the dim sea-light of 
 mystic depths. 
 
 It was with a sense of irritation at worldly affairs 
 that he finally recalled the business on hand. He 
 took up his oar and paddled into the inner recesses of 
 the waterway. He passed right through and came 
 out at the northern end, without having seen any- 
 thing to explain the mystery of the vanishing smug- 
 glers. True; it was possible that, even as he had 
 navigated the entire length of the passage, so might 
 the smuggler craft have done. But this was not 
 probable, for the vanished boat, in that case, must 
 have landed between the rock and Morag. This ruse 
 could hardly have escaped the detecting eyes of 
 Horneycraft, even if the score of other onlookers had 
 seen and kept silent. 
 
 Larkin was satisfied that the trick whatever its 
 nature had been played between the end of the pas- 
 sage at which he had entered and the one at which he 
 [66]
 
 Whirled into the Unknown 
 
 now made his exit. He retraced his course through 
 the passage, pausing every few strokes of the paddle 
 to examine thoroughly the rocks on either side, above 
 and below the water. 
 
 He reflected that it was now high tide and that 
 some inlet which had escaped observation in the dark- 
 ness of the previous night might now be submerged. 
 But against this idea was another. If there was 
 aught in the nature of a cave which had swallowed up 
 the smugglers, it seemed certain that it must be 
 flooded. To be sure, the incident of last night had 
 occurred at a lower tide. As he gazed over the side 
 he wondered if, on her previous arrivals, it had been 
 the habit of the Thistle Down to drop anchor at low 
 tide. 
 
 Toward the center of the waterway, Larkin noticed 
 that the depth increased and, also, that at this point 
 the tooth-like rows of reef were absent. In fact, the 
 sea here receded under the landward cliff in a manner 
 suggesting that undermining which, among the rug- 
 ged formations of the west coast of Scotland, has 
 produced so many sea-caves. It was barely possible 
 that at low tide there might be ingress to some 
 hiding-place here. But to make the idea worthy of 
 entertainment, it was necessary also to grant that 
 there was egress from the cave at the other end, unless 
 the smugglers' lair was, like the sea-monsters', in some 
 black grotto containing a vast bubble of air. 
 [67]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 The weird thought fascinated Larkin. He shipped 
 his oar and gazed long and keenly into the gray- 
 green depths. There were black shadows there which 
 might be breaks in the rock, or merely the surface of 
 the rock itself, gloomed by the very distance from the 
 surface. 
 
 Then Larkin's heart began to beat rapidly. It 
 was not so much on account of what he saw, although 
 the sea-tresses below the surface and the water itself 
 suddenly began to dance under some strange influ- 
 ence! But to his ears, from some vague direction, 
 came a familiar sound the first bars of that quaint 
 Scotch song which Grogblossom had whistled: 
 
 " Pease brose again, mither, pease brose again! " 
 
 Then there was a momentary silence. Larkin's 
 hand gripped the edge of the skiff and he glared into 
 the depths of the sea, for, to his puzzled mind, it 
 actually seemed as if the sound was coming up 
 through the water. His heart almost stood still as he- 
 waited for the response which he felt ought to come. 
 It came fainter than the first notes more distant 
 more ghostly: 
 
 " Ye feed me like a blackbird, and me yer only wean! " 
 
 Larkin felt his hair tingle and his spine creep. 
 With the whistling, the agitation of the sea in- 
 [68]
 
 Whirled into the Unknown 
 
 creased. The surface began to hiss and twist and 
 foam all around him, and all at once the skiff spun 
 around like a top. 
 
 Larkin sprang to the oars with a cry; but oars 
 were useless in that seething caldron of water. 
 Spinning, rocking, and plunging, the skiff shot now 
 a few yards in this direction; then, encountering an- 
 other current, it was flung back with a crash of water. 
 The lieutenant, while he had little time to think, was 
 yet conscious that he was in some sort of tidal trap. 
 
 He could do nothing now but trust to luck and 
 keep his eyes and wits clear. He sat exactly in the 
 middle of his seat, and with his hands gripping either 
 side of the narrow skiff, strove to keep the balance. 
 But it was in vain. The water seemed to sink, but 
 so suddenly that, to the dazzled eye, it was as if the 
 great tooth-like reefs rose out of the water to close 
 upon the little craft. 
 
 At the first grinding crunch of the boat's side up- 
 on the rocks, Ben Larkin knew that it was no use de- 
 pending longer upon Jack Cookson's skiff. The turbu- 
 lent waters, flinging the boat upon a reef and as 
 swiftly drawing away, left her a deadweight, sliding 
 and falling backward into the caldron. The lieu- 
 tenant, with less of a prayer than a determination to 
 do his best and die hard, flung himself headlong into 
 the windless storm. 
 
 Down he went, with the water bubbling white and 
 [69]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 cool around his face. He struck out in the blinding 
 foam, expecting every moment to reach the surface. 
 There presently came a gleam of sunshine, which was 
 eclipsed as soon as he had seen it ; then he found him- 
 self once more among the snow-like foam, beating 
 thin bubbles with his hands and choking for air. 
 
 Once, twice, he saw the light of day. Then again 
 he was below. What did this mean? He was an ex- 
 pert swimmer, yet he could not keep above water, It 
 was as if a giant had reached up from the sea-depths 
 and was beating him about like a ball, flinging him 
 into the sunlight and dragging him headlong to the 
 depths again. Once more the sunlight flashed in his 
 eyes. He opened his mouth to draw breath and next 
 moment, with his lungs bursting with salt, stinging 
 water, he was whirling under the sea, this time in the 
 green bottom-currents. 
 
 This was the end ! The thought flashed across his 
 mind, as he was relentlessly flung around like a dead 
 weed. He became possessed with a wonderful calm. 
 He was almost glad that death should be by drown- 
 ing. Presently he would be one with that under- 
 world over which he had but recently dreamed. He 
 felt the soft wrack brush across his face. 
 
 Then came a dull shock through his lungs and he 
 
 opened his eyes, as he firmly believed, for the last 
 
 time. Away over him was the gay-green light of 
 
 God's sunny world, and below him was the dim temple 
 
 [70]
 
 Whirled into the Unknown 
 
 of God's great sea, out of which there suddenly shot, 
 coming up to meet him, a long, slender body, sur- 
 mounted by the face of Smuggle-erie ! 
 
 With a sense of sudden marvel, Ben Larkin drifted 
 into the eternity of nothingness. 
 
 [71]
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A MAN'S A MAN FOE A* THAT 
 
 THESE events, mysterious though they appear, are 
 narrated exactly as they happened and in the order 
 of happening, and, like most mysterious things, are 
 susceptible of ready and natural explanation. There 
 was nothing of the supernatural, as the unlucky Lar- 
 kin supposed, in the ghostly whistle, the sudden con- 
 vulsion of the waters, and the submarine appearance 
 of Smuggle-erie. 
 
 When the latter left Captain John Grant's house, 
 the uneasiness which had determined him to clear the 
 tracks of the smugglers waxed stronger as he walked 
 away toward the Bull Rock, thinking over all that 
 the skipper had to say. 
 
 His uneasiness was not wholly due to fear of the 
 revenue-officers. The worm of physical fear had not 
 yet learned to turn in Smuggle-erie's heart, or con- 
 science. But something he hardly knew what had 
 stung the lad's vanity. He was vaguely conscious 
 that he had gone to Grant's cottage with a half-seri- 
 ous intention of arranging a wedding. Somehow, his 
 half-serious intention had gone seriously wrong, and 
 [72]
 
 A Man's a Man for a* That 
 
 his heathen manhood rebelled. His anger rose when 
 the wind, suddenly filliping the silk kerchief in his 
 face, reminded him of the rest of his gala attire, and 
 for what purpose he had worn it. 
 
 Without fully realizing it himself, Smuggle-erie 
 was suffering the childish pang of a first disappoint- 
 ment. Grizel} he suddenly felt, was a very different 
 person to what she had been an hour before. She 
 was further removed from him, both in fact and 
 fancy. The sailor's all-embracing love of the petti- 
 coat had become metamorphosed all at once into a 
 strange respect for the mysteries of the business. 
 His mind, so untutored in the delicacy of love, floun- 
 dered aimlessly around two facts that Grant had 
 practically negatived his wedding plan, and that 
 Grizel herself had not seemed very enthusiastic about 
 it. 
 
 He went back in his mind over every word of their 
 brief conversation under the flagstaff. He wondered 
 where he could have gained the effrontery to talk 
 about marrying her at all. He wondered, indeed, 
 how he had ever had the courage to kiss her as if she 
 was a pet kitten, and love a bobbin on a string. The 
 blood of shame flooded Smuggle-erie's face and neck, 
 which had never before changed color to anything but 
 the sun and the sea. 
 
 Whether he realized it or not, there can be no 
 doubt that Smuggle-erie was at last in love, for every 
 [73]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 time his mind turned upon Lieutenant Ben Larkin, it 
 was suddenly overwhelmed with gloom. Why, he did 
 not know, or try to imagine, but the jealous eye of 
 unconscious instinct had looked out, and knew how 
 the wind blew. 
 
 As he neared the abandoned lodge by the gate lead- 
 ing to Morag Castle, Smuggle-erie cast off his heavy 
 thoughts with characteristic alacrity. He had seri- 
 ous business on hand, and, although his mind oc- 
 casionally reverted to Grizel, it was keenly alert to 
 that immediate business. 
 
 He strolled past the lodge, as if taking a morning 
 walk. His eyes took in every detail of the scenery 
 and the road. Then he stopped and looked around. 
 He was a solitary figure on that road, which ran 
 out of Morag and skirted the coast for miles. 
 
 At the point where Smuggle-erie paused, the sea- 
 ward side arose in a steep, ferny bank, ending ab- 
 ruptly at its highest point, where there was^a sheer 
 declivity into the waterway behind the Bull Rock. 
 The precipice extended for several hundred yards in 
 either direction, sinking gradually into tumbled rocks 
 and sandy beaches. In heavy weather, the surging 
 waves in the waterway below cast showers of water 
 right over the cliff into the road, which would be 
 flooded at times, for days together. 
 
 On the landward side of the road where Smuggle- 
 erie was standing was the old crumbled gate of Laird 
 [74]
 
 A Man's a Man for a 3 That 
 
 Halliday's grounds and, beside it, the ruined lodge. 
 From this, it may be judged that the Laird's estate 
 was not in the best of order. It was, in fact, in a 
 state of disrepair or overgrowth, which the Laird 
 was either too mean to observe, or disregarded for 
 private and personal reasons. The castle itself, 
 strange to say, was a fine old building, and well- 
 ordered, too. 
 
 Smuggle-erie, having satisfied himself that both he 
 and the gardener's lodge were unobserved, walked 
 straight toward the door of the deserted building, at 
 the same time whistling, rapidly and softly, the first 
 bars of " Pease Brose Again, Mither," the second 
 line of which came like an echo from somewhere in the 
 vicinity of the ruin. 
 
 The young sailor, after another glance around, 
 stepped into the lodge and sat down on a broken 
 chair. Presently a little square patch of the floor 
 was slowly raised and a shock of red hair and a pair 
 of bloodshot, ferret-like eyes appeared. 
 
 " Is't yersel' ? " whispered a voice, with a quaver 
 of fright in it. " Man, but ye gie'd me a fright that 
 time ! " 
 
 " What's frightening you, Red Mole? " said 
 Smuggle-erie. " Is it your conscience? " 
 
 " Wheesht ! " said the Red Mole, looking strangely 
 like his sobriquet as he peered out of the dark, under- 
 ground cellar. " Ye're that reckless, man." 
 [75]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Heave up that hatch, m'lad. There's a king's 
 gentleman spearin' flounder in the waterway." 
 
 " What's that ye say ? " gasped the Red Mole, 
 flinging up the trap-door and cowering back into the 
 gloom of the hole which was revealed. " A king's 
 man, an' you whistlin' oot there like a mavy. Come 
 awa' doon, man, an' shut the hatch shut the hatch ! " 
 
 "Ye old rat ! " Smuggle-erie said, with smiling 
 scorn. " Drop a pin an' ye scurry into your hole. 
 But mind the ferret, man, the blue ferret wi' the gold 
 breast. He hunts rats, moles, weasels, and smu " 
 
 The trap-door closed gently over Smuggle-erie's 
 head, and there was silence in the haunted lodge. 
 
 Down below, Smuggle-erie squatted on a case of 
 wine and surveyed the Red Mole's quarters, which 
 were filled with miscellaneous merchandise of a con- 
 traband nature. 
 
 " Making yourself happy, I see," Smuggle-erie 
 said with a nod toward a barrel, upon which rested a 
 bottle and a horn cup beside a lighted tallow-dip. 
 
 " Aye, man," whispered the Red Mole, as if an 
 excuse was asked for. " It's the damp, ye ken 
 drip! drip! drip a' the while, an' dribblin' doon 
 the wa's, an' the sea washin' washin' a' the time. It 
 makes a man feel cauld." 
 
 In the old days the place in which Smuggle-erie 
 and the Red Mole sat had played many a part in clan 
 and border warfare. At one time it had been used 
 [76]
 
 A Man's a Man for a' That 
 
 as a sea-escape from the castle, but time and the un- 
 dermining of the waters had caused a collapse of the 
 greater part of the passage. The sea-end, however, 
 was still clear and presented a weird aspect at that 
 moment. The tide was full, and the sea, covering 
 the mouth of the cave, flooded to its own level inside. 
 The floor of the rock lair slanted downward into a 
 long black pool, in the bosom of which the waters 
 brightened into the green of daylit water. From the 
 blackness of the inner cave one could sit and watch 
 the fish coming to the mouth, swimming slowly in a 
 short distance, then whisking out again as if in dis- 
 trust of the candle-eyed monster that dwelt in that 
 underground gloom. 
 
 " Ye'll hae a dram yerself ? " the Red Mole sug- 
 gested. 
 
 Smuggle-erie looked at the fiery-headed, red-eyed 
 animal before him and refused with a gesture of dis- 
 gust. 
 
 " It's guid whusky ! " protested the Red Mole, 
 holding up the bottle with a shaky hand, ready to 
 pour the dram. 
 
 " And cheap," said Smuggle-erie. " But a look 
 at you's enough to turn any man from the stuff." 
 
 The danger signal of a drunkard's nervous ferocity 
 flashed in the Red Mole's eyes. 
 
 " Let me be! " he suddenly yelled. 
 
 " There it is, ye see," observed Smuggle-erie coolly. 
 [77]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " You're about as safe as a loaded gun in a hot oven. 
 Sit down, ye fool, and listen to me. Keep your 
 temper for them that's afraid o' ye ! " 
 
 The Red Mole glared at him for a moment, his 
 hands twitching and his yellow teeth flashing over his 
 dry lips ; then he sat down, pale and trembling, under 
 the force of the superior brain. 
 
 " Can ye no mind yer ain beez'ness? " he grumbled. 
 
 " Listen to me," said Smuggle-erie. " If the Cot- 
 house stuff is to get through, we especially you 
 have to keep a clear head." 
 
 The Red Mole flashed the danger signal again, but 
 said nothing. Smuggle-erie continued : 
 
 " This stuff has to be cleared out of here as 
 soon's it's dark. There's a pack of hounds smelling 
 
 around Smuggle-erie broke off with a cry 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 He was staring at the long, black pool, where the 
 figure of a man could be seen aimlessly flinging about 
 in the undercurrents at the mouth. The arms and 
 legs of the figure drooped helplessly, and the man's 
 head tumbled limply about as he spun in the water. 
 
 " Somebody caught in the ebb ! " yelled Smuggle- 
 erie, jumping to his feet. 
 
 The Red Mole was also on his feet at the first 
 alarm. His face was stamped with the dread of dis- 
 covery, but as his eyes rested upon the man in the 
 green circle of light in the bosom of the pool, he 
 [78]
 
 A Man's a Man for a That 
 
 tuined and laid a restraining hand upon Smuggle- 
 erie, who was wrestling with his jacket-buttons. 
 
 " Let 'im drown ! Let 'im drown ! " the Red Mole 
 whispered tensely. " It's the revenue officer. Let 
 'im drown ! " 
 
 He clung to Smuggle-erie as he spoke, with a sort 
 of nervous glee. 
 
 The young sailor stopped for a moment as he 
 recognized the figure of Larkin. His brows con- 
 tracted swiftly and his lip lowered dourly, but only 
 for an instant. Then he struck the Red Mole full in 
 his hairy face and rushed down the incline of the cave 
 with a yell. 
 
 " Revenue or no, a man's a man for a' that ! " and 
 the last word was drowned in the sullen roar of his 
 body striking the water. 
 
 The pool was a tossing, foaming caldron for a 
 moment. Then Smuggle-erie emerged, in a confused 
 heap, with the inanimate Larkin. He struggled 
 wildly toward the shallows. 
 
 The Red Mole, forgetting in that moment the pain 
 of his broken lip and his own hatred of revenue spies, 
 sprang forward to help. Such is the instinctive 
 good in the worst of us. 
 
 In a few minutes Smuggle-erie was on dry rock, 
 with the lieutenant face downward at his feet. The 
 young sailor was panting madly, but the prostrate 
 figure lay white, still, and dripping. 
 [79]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Roll him over ! " gasped Smuggle-erie. " Roll 
 him over again ! Stand him on his head now there ! 
 easy, lad. Fegs ! I've spoilt my best togs ! " he 
 added, with a short laugh. 
 
 " I'm thinkin' he's deid," whispered the Red Mole 
 in a tone of relief. 
 
 " Never fear," said Smuggle-erie. " He's too 
 good a man for that. Up wi' that hatch an' get him 
 in the open air." 
 
 "Ye're daft!" cried the Red Mole. "D'ye no 
 see? " 
 
 " Open that hatch, ye rat ! " commanded Smuggle- 
 erie. 
 
 " It's no fair ! " whined the Red Mole savagely. 
 " It's no fair to me an' the ithers. D'ye no see that 
 ye'll hae t'explain hoo ye got him oot o' the tide race ; 
 an' ye canna tell." 
 
 " An' if he comes to in here, an' sees that contra- 
 band ! " roared Smuggle-erie. " Open that hatch, ye 
 black-brained sot, an' get him out quick ! " 
 
 " I will not ! " said the Red Mole with sudden fire. 
 
 Smuggle-erie, who had been bending over Larkin, 
 trying to restore his breathing, sprang to his feet 
 with an oath. 
 
 He saw a steel blade glint in the dim candle-light, 
 
 but flung himself recklessly upon the red-haired man. 
 
 There followed a crash, and both men rolled on the 
 
 rocky floor of the cavern. The Red Mole's arm flew 
 
 [80]
 
 A Man's a Man for a That 
 
 in the air, but before the steel descended, Smuggle- 
 erie, who was undermost, gave his antagonist a 
 mighty heave and the next moment it was the would- 
 be murderer who was at the other's mercy. Smug- 
 gle-erie's fingers clutched the shock of hair, and the 
 cave echoed the hollow bumping of the Red Mole's 
 head on the rock floor. 
 
 " Don't ! Don't ! " moaned a voice piteously. 
 
 " What was the knife for? " Smuggle-erie ground 
 out through his teeth. 
 
 " Ye dinna understand ! " the Red Mole pleaded. 
 " It was no for ye. It was " 
 
 " Ye mean you would have stabbed a half-drowned 
 man ! " Smuggle-erie asserted. " I always thought 
 it was in ye. Get up, ye red-haired Satan. Thankee. 
 I'll tak' the knife. Now, open that hatch." 
 
 The Red Mole, cowed to submission, scrambled up 
 the ladder and let the diffused light of the lodge fall 
 upon the candle-lit scene. 
 
 Smuggle-erie hoisted the lieutenant up to the Red 
 Mole and then himself climbed up. Once all were in 
 the lodge, the Red Mole let down the trap, and again 
 he faced Smuggle-erie, his lips shaking with fear. 
 
 " Smuggle-erie ! " he pleaded. " Listen to Baldy 
 Currie." He employed his real name. " If that 
 man leaves this place " 
 
 Smuggle-erie turned on him savagely. 
 
 " Another word of that," he said, " and I'll may- 
 [81]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 be bury this knife where you'd be the least sur- 
 prised ! " 
 
 The Red Mole fell back. 
 
 " Here ! Bear a hand ! " said Smuggle-erie. " Up 
 with him higher on the shoulder. No, let his head 
 hang. Right! A little more to the front. There! 
 Now, open that door, and you keep your mouth for 
 liquor and leave talk to them that's got sense." 
 
 With that parting gift of words, Smuggle-erie 
 staggered out into the sunshine with his rival, Ben 
 Larkin, hanging limp across his shoulders. He 
 gained the road and swung off at a half -stride, half- 
 trot, for Mo rag. 
 
 The first house that he came to that is, the first 
 where comfort and assistance were available was the 
 cottage with the flagstaff. As he staggered through 
 the gate into the kail-yard, the front door was 
 quickly opened and Grizel rushed to meet him. 
 
 "Oh, what is it? Who is it? What has hap- 
 pened? " she cried. 
 
 " A friend of yours," Smuggle-erie managed to 
 gasp, staggering manfully under the dead-weight. 
 " Come to stay f 'r a week ! " 
 
 She glanced at the white face on Smuggle-erie's 
 shoulder and gave a little cry of womanly concern. 
 
 " It's the young lieutenant ! Oh, the poor man ! 
 I must get a bed spread ! " 
 
 Grizel preceded rescued and rescuer into the cot- 
 [82]
 
 A Man's a Man for a' That 
 
 tage. Smuggle-erie reeled into the parlor, where 
 Captain John Grant sat brooding in a chair. 
 
 The sea-master sprang to his feet as the young 
 mate dropped his burden on the settle by the empty 
 hearth, and stared like a man suddenly bereft of un- 
 derstanding. 
 
 Then his eyes shot from the face of the uncon- 
 scious man to Smuggle-erie. 
 
 " What happened ? " asked Grant hoarsely. 
 
 " Came into the crow's nest, and the crow was in," 
 said Smuggle-erie shortly. " Send for the dominie." 
 
 " You mean man, you don't mean? " and the big 
 skipper's voice was drowned in a gulp of horror. 
 
 " I've cut my knuckles already on the red whelp's 
 teeth," said Smuggle-erie savagely. " Send for the 
 dominie, or this man'll die, if he's no dead already." 
 
 A great light leaped into the captain's eyes and he 
 walked to the door. 
 
 " Forgive me, lad," he said quietly. " Grizel ! " 
 he roared through the door. " Put on your bonnet, 
 lass, and run for the dominie." 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir ! " said Grizel. " I've sent Daft 
 Tommy as fast as he can go. But we'll have to make 
 a bed in the parlor." 
 
 She came into the room on tiptoe and slowly ap- 
 proached the figure on the settle. She gazed at Lar- 
 kin for a moment, standing a few yards back. Then 
 she whispered fearfully: 
 
 [83]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Is he is he living, Smuggle-erie ? " 
 
 " Aye, lass, I think so I hope so," said he, avert- 
 ing his eyes. 
 
 Her gaze moved to her reckless lover. His chest 
 was bare, and he was wiping the dyed moisture from 
 his neck. Grizel's eyes faltered and dropped to the 
 carpet, where a pool of sea-water was gathering 
 around Smuggle-erie's feet. 
 
 " Was't you was't you that saved him? " she 
 stammered. 
 
 " I hauled him out o' the water, if that's what you 
 mean," said he roughly. 
 
 Something rose in her throat and her eyes moved 
 with maternal tenderness to the white face on the 
 settle, and then shyly to Smuggle-erie. She began 
 to cry softly. 
 
 At that moment Captain Grant's voice sang out : 
 
 " Here comes the dominie, lad, and the coast- 
 guard's with him ! " 
 
 [84]
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 STILL WATERS RUN DEEP 
 
 FOR a week after Smuggle-erie brought Ben Lar- 
 kin to the cottage behind the flagstaff, Morag nestled 
 at the base of the hills and in the cup of the bay, as 
 innocent a spot as a village in a painted canvas. 
 
 But where two or three human beings are gathered 
 together in any cause, there must ever flow the stream 
 of human emotions, fast or slow, but still moving to 
 the climax of the individual and the whole. And in 
 Morag a terrible drama was softly, silently, relent- 
 lessly, and unseen, moving to the crucial night of 
 Laird Halliday's harvest gathering a night that is 
 still remembered in Morag. 
 
 It was Saturday morning when Smuggle-erie risked 
 his life and saved his honor for Ben Larkin. It was 
 Sunday morning when the lieutenant came to a full 
 realization of what had happened to him and what 
 had been done for him. The old bell of the parish 
 church was humming in the Sunday stillness, when 
 he awoke, after a long, refreshing sleep, and lay for 
 a while wondering where he was and how he got 
 there. 
 
 [85]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 The parlor of the skipper's cottage was a bright, 
 sunny room, and Larkin's eye appreciated in a 
 moment that he was in the home of a seafaring man. 
 Besides the ordinary furnishings, there were decora- 
 tions collected from abroad sunfish, sharks' teeth, 
 carved gourds, ray-swords, and other salty sug- 
 gestions. Over the fireplace, too, was a crude paint- 
 ing of a schooner, which Ben Larkin at once recog- 
 nized as the Thistle Down. In the lower part of the 
 frame were a couple of brass hooks supporting a very 
 ancient telescope; while underneath was a master's 
 certificate framed in plain oak. 
 
 When Grizel Grant stole into the room for a peep 
 at the patient, Ben was delighted, but not surprised. 
 He had already made up his mind that he was in 
 Captain John Grant's house. It occurred to him 
 that the situation was a bit anomalous. If his sus- 
 picions of Smuggle-erie proved correct, they must 
 naturally extend to the master of the Thistle Down. 
 
 Grizel stood looking down into his open eyes for 
 a moment before she realized that he was awake. 
 Then she stammered something about being very glad, 
 and went away to call the skipper, who presently re- 
 turned alone and asked Larkin how he felt. 
 
 "Astonished, that's all," was the reply. It was 
 given in a voice the weakness of which was a further 
 astonishment to the patient. 
 
 "Good!" said the big sea-master. "That's the 
 [86]
 
 Still Waters Run Deep 
 
 way with drowning. It either kills or does little 
 harm." 
 
 " So I was drowned? " said Larkin. " Yes, I re- 
 member - " 
 
 He paused and looked inquiringly at the captain, 
 whose face took on its steel-trap expression. 
 
 " I remember seeing Smuggle-erie coming up 
 through the water to meet me." He stopped and 
 turned an appealing eye on the skipper. " I'm 
 afraid I'm still a little light-headed, but I distinctly 
 remember - It was very odd. . . . Oh, rub- 
 bish ! " he added wearily. 
 
 " I wouldn't bother my head about what you 
 about how you felt when you were in the water," said 
 the captain. " You had better go to sleep again." 
 
 He moved as if to leave. 
 
 " No, I'm all right," said Larkin. " Who was it 
 saved me? " 
 
 " Dick Scrymegeour," the captain replied, turning 
 in the middle of the floor. 
 
 "Who's he?" 
 
 " He's best known as Smuggle-erie," was the re- 
 
 " Oh ! " After a pause, Ben Larkin added : " So 
 it was Smuggle-erie ? . . . I would like to see him." 
 
 " As soon as you are fit," said the captain. " Bet- 
 ter sleep, my friend. It's the best cure." This time, 
 with a smile, he turned and went out of the room. 
 [87]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 Larkin did not sleep at once. So it -was Smuggle- 
 erie ! It was, then, not a dream not the hallucina- 
 tion of a drowning man. Smuggle-erie had come up 
 through the water to rescue him. 
 
 The matter lingered in his mind, though he at- 
 tempted to banish it as being a poor show of grati- 
 tude to the man who had saved his life. Yet it was 
 his duty. His duty? To turn a man's brave act 
 into evidence that would put him in jail? 
 
 Dick Scrymegeour Smuggle-erie? Probably he 
 was related to Giles Scrymegeour, the trader to whom 
 the Thistle Down was consigned. Ah ! Possibly 
 
 "This won't do," thought Ben Larkin. "I'll 
 drive myself to a fever." 
 
 He turned over in bed and looked at the wall, and 
 saw the face of Smuggle-erie coming up to meet him 
 through the green water. Why, then, did the man 
 save him? If, indeed, he was a smuggler; if, indeed, 
 he was as Larkin suspected Heather Bloom, why 
 did he not let him drown? 
 
 Then he idly wondered whether smugglers were as 
 black as they were painted. Was smuggling such a 
 bad business after all? One thing was certain. 
 They had crossed swords a second time, and again 
 Smuggle-erie had come out victor distinctly so! 
 And, having settled that, he fell asleep, and dreamed 
 of a nut-brown lass who stood over his bed and looked 
 down into his eyes. 
 
 [88]
 
 Still Waters Run Deep 
 
 Ben Larkin was not more than twenty-six years 
 old. His uniform, of which he was so proud, made 
 him look older. Without it, he looked what he really 
 was an overgrown lad, with a great deal of sincerity 
 in him. Ever since he had taken up his command in 
 the Coast-Guard Service at Morag, he had been con- 
 scious of his extreme youth and inexperience, but 
 never so painfully as now. The knowledge, how- 
 ever, while it was ever with him, whetted his ambi- 
 tion to prove that he could be a man when occasion 
 required. 
 
 After church was out, old Jack Cookson put in an 
 appearance and insisted upon seeing " the adm'ral." 
 Here was one, indeed, who unconsciously gave com- 
 fort to the young lieutenant, in that the old sea-dog, 
 as Pitt said to Walpole, continued ignorant in spite 
 of age and experience. To the coast-guard, Ben 
 Larkin had communicated none of his suspicions. 
 Horneycraft had communicated all of his, naturally, 
 and to the sum-total of them old Jack Cookson had 
 replied : 
 
 " Smugglers aboard the Thistle Down, sir? You 
 are wrong, sir ! If there was a smuggler aboard that 
 craft, he wouldn't dare look me in the face, confound 
 'im ! " 
 
 Cookson was a sailor, accustomed to swing a cut- 
 lass when the enemy was shown him, and none doubted 
 the old fellow's valor ; but it was this very valor that 
 
 [89]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 blinded him to the possibility of a man not fighting in 
 the open, " like an Englishman, sir ! " 
 
 As he stood in Captain Grant's parlor, he was the 
 very picture of what he was an obsolete but pic- 
 turesque old hulk, whose principal duty as coast- 
 guard was to strut round like an old turkey-cock with 
 his telescope, white trousers, and blue coat, and with 
 tales of how he lost his left arm at the battle of 
 Trafalgar, to keep alive the naval spirit and general 
 patriotism of the rising generation. 
 
 " Aha, m'lad ! " said he, when he had offered the 
 usual solicitous inquiries after health and sleep, " this 
 reminds me of a certain adm'ral of great and glorious 
 mem'ry God rest his soul and confound the French ! 
 As he lay in the old Victory, sir, a-dyin' of his 
 wounds, he 
 
 " You mean Horatio Nelson ? " said Larkin 
 gravely. 
 
 " Who else, sir? " snorted Jack Cookson. " Lord 
 Nelson, sir my old adm'ral. Son of a clergyman 
 he was a sky-pilot! what d'ye think o' that? 
 Piloted more Frenchmen to glory in one hour than 
 his father did in a lifetime, by thunder ! 
 
 " That was at Trafalgar, sir, same engagemint I 
 lost m' left arm in the sarvice of my country and 
 king, God bless 'im ! I remember it like it was yes- 
 terday, sir. Only a few minutes before he fell, 
 witally wounded, sir, a shot tore off my left arm. I 
 [90]
 
 Still Waters Run Deep 
 
 lay on that deck, sir, wishing another shot would take 
 off my head and be done with it. Next thing I sees 
 is my old adm'ral a-bein' carried to the cockpit, sir. 
 You're young, sir beggin' your pardon, and you 
 won't believe it ; but when 'e waved 'is hand to us lads 
 witally wounded, sir I forgot I 'ad ever 'ad a left 
 arm, and I sat up, sir, and cheered, by thunder! 
 cheered! 
 
 " After that it didn't matter to me, nor to none of 
 us. If we was wounded, so was 'e! Shot and shell? 
 Minded 'em no more'n peas and parsley, sir peas 
 and parsley! Over'ead was the glorious string of 
 signals : ' Hengland expecks this day that every man 
 will do his dooty.' And we done it, by thunder! 
 to a man, sir! I was disabled lost m' left arm, 
 sir but I lay on that deck and shouted with might 
 and main : ' God bless King George and damn the 
 French ! ' " 
 
 And old Jack Cookson finished his favorite yarn 
 with a battle-roar that brought in Mrs. Martin (the 
 skipper's housekeeper since Mrs. Grant died), who 
 said, with much acidity: 
 
 " Wad ye hae the guidness to bear in mind, 
 Adm'ral Cookson, that this is the Sawbath 
 day?" 
 
 "What's that?" snorted old Cookson. "What 
 did I do? What did I say?" 
 
 " Ye said ' damn the French,' " asserted Mrs. Mar- 
 [91]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 tin, adding as an afterthought : " Heaven f orgie me 
 for repeatin' the vile word." 
 
 " Madam," said the coast-guard, rising in all his 
 naval dignity, telescope and all, " far be it from an 
 Englishman to contradict a lady, but I distinctly said 
 * confound the French ! ' ; 
 
 " Pardon me, Adm'ral Cookson," retorted Mrs. 
 Martin stiffly, " I am no' dull o' hearin'." 
 
 " I appeal to the adm'ral in the cockpit here ! " 
 cried Cookson. " Did I say ' damn,' sir? " 
 
 " I didn't catch the precise word," said Ben Lar- 
 kin, highly amused, " but if it wasn't ' confound,' it 
 was a word to that effect." 
 
 " There ! " snorted the coast-guard, and Mrs. Mar- 
 tin retreated under all sail. 
 
 " That silenced her guns, sir," said Jack Cookson 
 victoriously. 
 
 Just as the patient began to grow drowsy over the 
 coast-guard's yarns, the dominie put in an appear- 
 ance. 
 
 The two men were as opposite in character, tastes, 
 and learning as a high priest and a cabin-boy. Yet, 
 over a friendly grog and each with a churchwarden 
 clay pipe, they got along together like a pair of 
 ducks. But, when one comes to think of it, they 
 could hardly disagree, seeing that the one never lis- 
 tened to a word the other was saying, only waiting a 
 chance to wedge in a story of his own. 
 [92]
 
 Still Waters Run Deep 
 
 " And how does the patient progress to-day ? " 
 asked the kind old dominie, after the usual greetings. 
 " Let us hope, well. There have been no symptoms 
 of suffusion of blood in the lungs, I trust, nor have 
 you experienced any great pains in the head? Ah! 
 That is gratifying. You will be well in a few days. 
 Rest is all you need. In extreme cases, where there 
 might have been breaking of the lung cells from 
 strangulation, I might have administered a drug; but 
 nature, my friends, is the sovereign remedy for all 
 ills. We, despite our ever-increasing knowledge, are 
 but servants of the great medico, the master- 
 surgeon, Nature. In the olden times, leeches were 
 applied for reducing the pressure of blood, but mod- 
 ern science has established that blood being a neces- 
 sary concomitant of physical strength, it was highly 
 desirable that it should be left to thrive the patient. 
 Nature, sir! Nature is the sovereign alchemist." 
 
 " That's book-larnin' book-larnin' ! " said the 
 coast-guard. " An' I know it to be facts, sir. Why, 
 at sea there war'n't no folderols about the sick-bay 
 arter an engagement. Nature, by thunder! Na- 
 ture done it! I've seen a doctor sail in an' ampytate 
 a man's leg with a cutlass, sir, and that man has the 
 finest wooden leg you ever seen ! And main proud o' 
 that leg, too made out of a mizzen-stump as was 
 shot away in the engagement with Du Grasse. Ship's 
 carpenter turned it out while Rodney was towin' the
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 whole French fleet into Jamaica 1 place they make 
 rum, sir." 
 
 Then the dominie discoursed on Jamaica and re- 
 markable instances of amputation, and the two old 
 fogies ended by going off arm-in-arm to the coast- 
 guard house, Cookson with his telescope and the domi- 
 nie with his staff, and the bit of lace falling in old- 
 fashioned grace over the handle. Ben Larkin lay 
 in bed, smiling at the queer pair they made. 
 
 When he awoke again, dusk had set in. He felt 
 refreshed, contented, and stronger. Nevertheless, he 
 was comfortable with the comfort that will not be dis- 
 turbed. It was pleasant to lie there in the soft .light 
 of the lamp that had just been set on the table, and 
 watch the glow of it on the hair of the nut-brown 
 lass. She was sitting by the hearth in which the 
 first fire of the season had just been built. It was 
 beginning to sputter with the melodious suggestion 
 of coziness. 
 
 " Miss Grizel," he said. 
 
 She came to the bedside, and, seeing that he was 
 awake, would have run off, as before, to bring her 
 father or Mrs. Martin. But he detained her. 
 
 " You have been very kind," he said. 
 
 " I'm sure," she returned, a bit confused, " that 
 
 we're quite paid for it if your life has been saved. 
 
 It it isn't everyone, captain I mean, lieutenant 
 
 who ever gets a chance to to save somebody's life." 
 
 [94]
 
 Still Waters Run Deep 
 
 " That's a very deep remark," he said, smiling. 
 
 " For a man, maybe," she flashed mischievously. 
 " A woman, ye ken, must spend a' her life saving." 
 
 " Saving men, you mean? " 
 
 " In a way. Saving his money for him, if noth- 
 ing else." 
 
 " Miss Grizel," said he curiously, " do you always 
 talk like that?" 
 
 " W-why ? " she stammered. 
 
 " Because I like listening to you." 
 
 " I must call my father," she interrupted. " He 
 said I must light the fire, so we could sit by and cheer 
 you up." 
 
 " Did you light the fire? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And the lamp?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " A sort of little mother in the house," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 She turned very red in the face, but it was plain 
 she was not displeased. 
 
 " Mother died, why, when I was only five years 
 old," she explained ; " and Mrs. Martin reads her 
 Bible on Sundays." 
 
 The shadow of the big sea-master fell across the 
 room, and Grizel pulled his armchair into position by 
 the fire. After a few words with Larkin, he sat 
 down ; and there followed an awkward pause. 
 
 [95]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 Plainly, the man was ill at ease. And well he 
 might have been. The presence of the revenue officer 
 indeed, the whole circumstances of the business 
 seemed like the finger of Providence or a judgment. 
 After a few minutes, Grant looked at Grizel and 
 said: 
 
 " It's Sunday, lass. Will ye no play on the har- 
 monium ? " 
 
 The little organ stood near the improvised extra 
 bed on which Larkin lay, and was so situated that 
 when Grizel sat down at it he could see her profile 
 silhouetted against the firelight, and now and then a 
 glint of pink on her cheek. She silently turned over 
 the pages of the old hymnbook until she came to a 
 favorite piece. Then, with her head quaintly poised 
 and the tip of a little pink tongue peeping nervously 
 from the corner of a pretty mouth, she played for the 
 two men. 
 
 For a moment Ben Larkin was happy. The ten- 
 derness of sound and scene swept through him. Then 
 he came up short, with a jarring pang, for his eyes 
 suddenly fell upon the drooping, despondent figure 
 of John Grant. The captain was leaning forward, 
 elbow on knee and cheek in hand, staring moodily into 
 the fire. Ben Larkin thought he understood, but he 
 was as sorry for himself as for the big sea-master. 
 
 In the middle of Grizel's playing, Smuggle-erie put 
 in an appearance. He was at once overcome with 
 [96]
 
 Still Waters Run Deep 
 
 embarrassment. He was not used to quiet socials of 
 any kind, and there was something especially dispirit- 
 ing about this one. When Grizel's playing ceased, 
 hat in hand, he passed from father to daughter, shook 
 hands in some sort of fashion, and seemed relieved 
 when he found himself talking to Larkin. 
 
 " How is it, lad? " he said, with kindly familiarity. 
 
 " All well, thanks to you," Larkin replied, shaking 
 hands with him. " You are a man, Smuggle-erie." 
 
 " I hope so. If not, there's still time," was the 
 odd evasion of the compliment. " You wanted to see 
 me?" 
 
 " Naturally. How did you get me out of that 
 terrible passage? " 
 
 " I didn't find you in the passage," was the cool 
 response. " The tide drew you out of it and I picked 
 you up elsewhere. Come, don't let's talk about 
 it." 
 
 Larkin suddenly felt ashamed. 
 
 " I I didn't mean to I shouldn't have spoken 
 about it," he stammered. " But I'm grateful. You 
 know that, don't you? I'm grateful." 
 
 Smuggle-erie's eyes, twinkling with amusement, 
 looked down into his. 
 
 " That's all right, lad. I did my duty, as I expect 
 you to do yours." 
 
 Despite the good humor of his eyes, there was a 
 shade of subtler meaning in his expression. 
 [97]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 Smuggle-erie sat down and Grizel began another 
 hymn. 
 
 The man on the bed heard in a dim way, but his 
 eyes moved from one face to another. Ben Larkin 
 respected Grant, despite his suspicions; he admired 
 Smuggle-erie, despite his convictions; and he was 
 beginning to love Grizel, in spite of himself and the 
 gulf between them. 
 
 All four must have blessed the little harmonium, 
 which precluded talk and drowned the silence. All 
 except the innocent Grizel seemed to hear the 
 thoughts of the others through the soft music, as the 
 firelight danced mockingly on the faces of the three 
 men. Smuggle-erie fidgeted uneasily in his chair, 
 and his cap seemed an incubus on his knees. His eyes 
 lingered with a puzzled look on Grizel's hair, shifted 
 unhappily to the silent giant by the hearth, and 
 finally fixed on Ben Larkin's face. The young officer 
 was half sitting, half reclining, with his elbow on the 
 pillow, and, for a moment, his gaze was upon Grizel's 
 face. Smuggle-erie saw it, and the next moment his 
 eyes met the lieutenant's and the hymn ended with a 
 decisive " A-amen." 
 
 Smuggle-erie rose, bade them a short good-night, 
 and left the house. Under the flagstaff he stopped. 
 With his thumbs stuck in his belt, he looked back at 
 the lighted parlor window. 
 
 The sweet, quiet strains of the harmonium swelled 
 [98]
 
 Still Waters Run Deep 
 
 like some tender passion, and all at once an uncon- 
 trollable wave of pagan rage and jealousy burned in 
 Smuggle-erie's heart. With an oath, he swung away 
 toward Morag, and as he walked, he ripped out in 
 savage tone: 
 
 " I wish I'd let him drown ! " 
 
 [99]
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE HARVEST-HOME 
 
 SMUGGLE-ERIE'S jealousy was not without reason, 
 and he was quick to realize it. Larkin's growing in- 
 terest, too, could not hide itself much longer from 
 Grizel's eyes, nor from the shrewd perception of the 
 dismayed Captain Grant. But the lieutenant, with 
 creditable delicacy and good sense, returned to the 
 coast-guard station as soon as he was fit to walk, 
 which was on Monday. 
 
 For the rest of the week, however, try as he might 
 to avoid it, Larkin found himself, in some way or 
 other, walking with Grizel or meeting with her and 
 passing part of the day in passing the time o' day. 
 
 Miss Grizel, daughter of Eve, may have had a 
 hand in this seeming moving of the fates. Indeed, 
 she was displeased with Smuggle-erie. Her old lover 
 had suddenly grown sullen, and when he was with her 
 for more than five minutes, they invariably quarreled. 
 The sense of disappointment which she felt when he 
 tossed her an apple under the flagstaff, presently re- 
 solved itself into a kind of resentment at his churlish 
 [100]
 
 The Night of the Harvest-Home 
 
 love-making. Thus the lieutenant held the field al- 
 most undisputed. 
 
 Like a bull that has charged a shadow and stunned 
 itself on a tree, Smuggle-erie battled with the vague 
 jealousy which had newly come into his experience. 
 Until Grizel entered the game, if his interests had 
 been opposed to those of Ben Larkin, it had never oc- 
 curred to the young viking that he need fight very 
 hard, such was his confidence in his prowess. But 
 this was a game of which he was no master, and his 
 repeated attempts to score a point failed, or only suc- 
 ceeded in scoring for Larkin. He had one consola- 
 tion, however, and that was his ability to beat the 
 lieutenant at the game of " smuggle-erie." And beat 
 him at every turn he vowed to himself he would. 
 
 It is doubtful, indeed, whether Smuggle-erie was 
 capable of truly loving Grizel, or any other woman. 
 There was much in him that was lovable, or admi- 
 rable, but the circumstances of his childhood and the 
 nature of his profession all tended to an inoffensive 
 egotism the self-protective instinct of the fine ani- 
 mal. His jealousy of Grizel's love was as, indeed, 
 all jealousy is, more or less merely the sense of being 
 robbed. The difference between Smuggle-erie's jeal- 
 ousy and that of a less self-loving man was the differ- 
 ence between the dog in the manger and the fox that 
 really wanted the grapes. 
 
 By the end of the week, when the annual harvest- 
 [101]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 home was to take place in the big hall of Laird Halli- 
 day's castle, matters had reached a point where some- 
 thing definite was bound to happen. Something did 
 happen that night many things happened which in- 
 volved other persons besides Smuggle-erie, Grizel, and 
 Ben Larkin. 
 
 The harvest-home was, next to the New Year's Eve 
 jollification, the biggest social event in Morag. 
 From all the countryside came the laird's tenants and 
 the neighboring farmers to celebrate the homing of 
 the harvest, was it good or bad. The laird himself 
 was not a sociable man, although this was ever a mat- 
 ter for surprise to those who saw his jolly, fat face 
 at his sole annual appearance. He headed the table, 
 which groaned with hams, haggis, poultry, and other 
 eatables; danced with Mary, Maggie, and Molly; 
 drank with Tom, Dick, and Harry, and paid the 
 piper, both figuratively and literally. Then for 
 three hundred and sixty-four days he was again a 
 recluse. 
 
 It was a grand night for love-making, eating, and 
 drinking in the old castle, and Morag was a deserted 
 village while it lasted. Smugglers were given a holi- 
 day, for the Coast-Guard Service attended to a man, 
 led by " Adm'ral " Jack Cookson with his shining 
 telescope and best uniform. The king's gentlemen 
 rubbed shoulders and clinked glasses with Heather 
 Bloom and his daring lads, without knowing or caring 
 [102]
 
 The Night of the Harvest-Home 
 
 who they might be. The dominie lent an air of vener- 
 able distinction to the proceedings, and even Giles 
 Scrymegeour and Horneycraft had been known to 
 have a civil word for each other at the harvest- 
 home. 
 
 But this year both Giles and Horneycraft had 
 other business to attend to. What Horneycraft's 
 doings were, none ever knew until they were done, and 
 what Old Scryme's might be, only the Evil Eye could 
 tell. As a matter of fact, Giles Scrymegeour had 
 chosen the night of the harvest-home as being highly 
 suitable for the transaction of a little piece of busi- 
 ness which it would have been inadvisable to perform 
 in public and in daylight. 
 
 The harvest-home feast began about five o'clock in 
 the evening. As soon as it was dark, Old Scryme, 
 gazing with satisfaction along the deserted street, 
 closed up his house and shop, and putting the key in 
 his breast-pocket, mounted the shaggy pony which it 
 was his custom to ride when business took him to the 
 hills. 
 
 He carefully avoided the vicinity of Morag Castle 
 or the road leading to it, making a detour in order to 
 avoid meeting anybody. When he finally emerged 
 upon the main highway winding up into the hills, it 
 was pitch-dark, and Giles, leaning nervously over the 
 pony's neck, whipped up greater speed. 
 
 Giles Scrymegeour, it is hardly worth mentioning, 
 [103]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 was a poltroon of the veriest depths. His conscience 
 was bad, and a bad conscience is like having a Jere- 
 miah for a bedfellow a constant reminder of evil 
 things. As Old Scryme rode through the darkness 
 he was filled with the dread that something not a 
 ghost, but something material was following him. 
 Of ghosts there were plenty, too. They sat behind 
 him on the pony, trotted alongside, rose up before the 
 pony's head, and leaned over Giles's shoulder with 
 little reminding whispers of things Old Scryme had 
 done in the past. 
 
 To enumerate Giles's virtues, it would be necessary 
 to employ a process of elimination and then hold a 
 court of inquiry upon what was left. When he first 
 came to Morag, the village was Eden before the ar- 
 rival of the serpent. He loaned money at the begin- 
 ning, and generously refrained from foreclosing his 
 mortgages. In this way he swung the sword of 
 Damocles over the heads of his victims. In time he 
 opened a licensed tavern. By degrees he tightened 
 the rack upon Morag, until at the time of this story 
 he was, in one way or another, master of the village 
 and keeper of Morag's honor, most of which, neatly 
 tied with white tape, reposed in the old iron box in 
 his office. He lived in nightly dread of being mur- 
 dered, and he never went out after dark unless the 
 matter on hand were well worth it. The agonies he 
 endured from his tortured conscience and an in- 
 [104]
 
 The Night of the Harvest-Home 
 
 stinctive fear of the dark, were often a dear price for 
 what he gained. 
 
 He was vastly relieved, therefore, when a light on 
 the hillside about two miles behind Morag told him 
 that his destination was near. He whipped up the 
 pony and pressed on 
 
 Like one that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 It was with a sigh of relief that he drew up before 
 the Cothouse Inn and tied his pony to the hitching- 
 post. 
 
 The Cothouse was a mountain roadhouse of par- 
 ticularly sinister repute. Parents discouraged their 
 children from walking on the Cothouse road on Sun- 
 day afternoon, for it was whispered with horror 
 among the rigid Presbyterians that the inn was the 
 Sunday resort of drunkards and gamblers from the 
 surrounding hills. The nominal proprietor of the 
 place was Baldy Currie, better known as the Red 
 Mole ; but rumor had it that Giles Scrymegeour was 
 controller of the till. 
 
 The Red Mole spent most of his days upon the sea, 
 and for the most part the public-house bar was man- 
 aged by Mrs. Baldy Currie, an enormously fat 
 woman, whose favorite tipple was vinegar, and whose 
 tongue was as sour. That vinegar, which she 
 [105]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 drank in efforts to regain her lost barmaid beauty, 
 was the only womanly trait left in her character. 
 Her son, a tall, muscular, surly youth, was the only 
 law and order in that lawless, disorderly plague-spot. 
 He ruled by terror. 
 
 On this the night of the harvest-home the inn was 
 deserted except for the Curries. Mrs. Currie could 
 be heard snoring stertorously upstairs. The air was 
 faintly impregnated with strong vinegar. 
 
 The Red Mole greeted Old Scryme with the 
 obsequiousness of hatred and led the way into a back 
 room. Here there was a young man lying asleep on a 
 table. It seemed as if he would never uncurl himself 
 to his full length, when his father roughly awoke him. 
 Then he stood up in his long leather boots and 
 guernsey, and waited for someone else to speak. 
 
 " Weel," said Old Scryme, " is't a' ready? " 
 
 " Aye ! " 
 
 " Had we no better see it ? " 
 
 The tall youth took a key from a nail, while his 
 father, the Red Mole, fetched a lamp. 
 
 Archibald, as the son was called, then lifted the 
 shop shutters from their accustomed place on the 
 wall. Behind them was a door into which he slipped 
 the key. 
 
 "There ye are," said the Red Mole. "None o' 
 yer public property Fr me. When it's day, there's 
 the shutters, and wha'd think there was a door ahint? 
 [106]
 
 The Night of the Harvest-Home 
 
 An' then when it's night, an' the shutters are up, 
 there's none to see but me an' mine." 
 
 *' Aye, aye ! " said Giles with a grin. 
 
 The son silently waved them into the open doorway 
 and stood on guard as they went below. In the cellar 
 the light of the Red Mole's lamp revealed about half 
 a hundred kegs stacked neatly at the farther end. 
 
 " Ye canna wait a wee an' make it mair worth 
 while ? " whined the miser. 
 
 " Not another day," said the Red Mole decisively, 
 as he set down the lamp. " It's no safe a minnit 
 longer. What wi' that young fool Smuggle-erie 
 turnin' the castle hole into a hospital, an' a long- 
 nosed, whey-faced collector prowlin' ahint hedges " 
 
 " Ahint hedges ! " Old Scryme echoed, looking 
 hastily around the cellar. " What d'ye mean ? " 
 
 " Yon Hoarneycraft man's been pokin' aroon' this 
 place for twa days." 
 
 "Horneycraft!" 
 
 " Aye, but I'll no hae seen him the day. He'll hae 
 gi'en it up in disgust, like." 
 
 " Aye, aye. I'm glad to hear't. Noo, is the cart 
 an' the lads ready for the morrin's night? " 
 
 " Aye, aye," the Red Mole replied. " They'll leave 
 on the stroke o' twelve. But what's this I'm hearin' 
 o* Heather Bloom? The lads'll want an answer on 
 that afore they'll risk it." 
 
 " Leave that to me," whispered Giles with a grin. 
 [107]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " I hae a wee word that'll send him to sea as quick's 
 Jack Robinson. He's been like that afore, but 
 wheesht! What's that f" 
 
 Giles stopped and stood listening with his fingers 
 raised to the roof. Light footsteps could be heard 
 passing through the public bar. 
 
 " It's Archibald, man just Archibald," said the 
 Red Mole. 
 
 " Na, na," whispered'Giles, turning very pale. " It's 
 no Archibald. What for wad he tiptoe like that ? " 
 
 At that Baldy Currie, who knew that his son was a 
 lumbering animal, suddenly made a grab for the 
 lamp. He paused. 
 
 The two culprits stood for a moment in breathless 
 suspense. Then came a sudden rush of feet and a 
 fierce oath in Archibald's voice. 
 
 " Guid forgie me ! I'm trapped 1 " cried Old 
 Scryme. 
 
 " Shut up, ye auld idiot ! " the Red Mole snarled, 
 his eyes lurid with the danger-signal. " Another 
 word an' I'll thraw yer neck. Get ahint the barrels 
 quick ! " 
 
 Giles Scrymegeour flung his riding-cloak over his 
 face and sprung toward the hiding-place, but before 
 he could conceal himself there came a rumbling and 
 tumbling, and down the flight of stairs rolled Archi- 
 bald interlocked with the revenue collector, Mr. 
 Horneycraft. 
 
 [108]
 
 The Night of the Harvest-Home 
 
 The moment they reached the bottom of the stairs, 
 Archibald knew that he had his man safe. 
 
 He disentangled himself and took up a stand on 
 the stairway where he could bar the enemy's exit. 
 
 Mr. Horneycraft, however, had no intention of 
 leaving. He stood up before the Red Mole and bowed 
 in sardonic triumph. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Currie," he sneered. " An unexpected 
 visit, eh? Mr. Scrymegeour, I observed as I came in, 
 was suddenly overcome with commendable modesty. 
 Come out, Mr. Giles Scrymegeour come out ! " 
 
 There was a gravelike stillness in the cellar for a 
 few seconds. The lamp in Red Mole's hand shook 
 like a light reflected in moving waters, but the tall 
 youth on the staircase stood there as stiff and ex- 
 pressionless as a Roman soldier. 
 
 Then Giles Scrymegeour came from behind the 
 barrels. His face was livid, but if there was any fear 
 in it, it was the fear of desperation. 
 
 " Is't yersel', Maister Horneycraft?" he snarled. 
 " It's a braw night for you ! " 
 
 " It is, indeed," said Mr. Horneycraft coolly. " I 
 think I will set my official seal upon this cellar and 
 escort you before the nearest justice of the peace." 
 
 It must be said for Horneycraft that he showed 
 
 not a trace of fear. Yet his bravery was not of the 
 
 kind that is truly admirable. Rather, he was so 
 
 steeped in his business and so hardened to the despera- 
 
 [109]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 tion of those whom he found guilty of evading the 
 revenue, that it is probable the peril of his situation 
 never dawned upon him. 
 
 " An' so ye'll set yer official seal on the place, will 
 ye? " said Scrymegeour. " Mebbe we might set an 
 official seal on yer mouth ! " 
 
 " Spare your threats, Mr. Scrymegeour," said Mr. 
 Horneycraft loftily. " I've heard threats before." 
 
 " Mebbe ye'll no hear them agin," said Giles un- 
 easily, as if he hesitated to utter the words that, 
 once out, could not be recalled. 
 
 The figure in the stairway took a step nearer. 
 The Red Mole put down the lamp. Giles gathered 
 courage and support from these movements. 
 
 " Ye'll escort us to the nearest justice of the peace, 
 will ye?" Old Scryme rasped out. "Are ye sure 
 that y'are goin' yersel' ? " 
 
 He, too, crept a step nearer Mr. Horneycraft. 
 All at once he said in an evil, quick whisper : 
 
 " An ill day for you, Mr. Horneycraft, that ye 
 recognized Giles Scrymegeour. If there's to be 
 bloodshed in this place the night, be it yer ain an' 
 upon yer ain heid ! " 
 
 " Na, na ! " cried the Red Mole, his terror of dis- 
 covery getting the better of his animal ferocity. 
 " There'll be none o' that in my hoose. They'd search 
 for him." 
 
 Scrymegeour turned upon him like an animal at 
 [110]
 
 The Night of the Harvest-Home 
 
 bay. He saw with his cunning, ratlike shrewdness 
 that it was the life of the hunted or the hunter. 
 Above all things, he saw that it was chiefly necessary 
 for the safety of Giles Scrymegeour that someone 
 else be a party to the murder. 
 
 " Ye're mighty canny, Baldy," he jeered. " Was't 
 no' you that wad hae cut the weazand o' the lufftenant 
 in the cave ? " 
 
 Mr. Horneycraft pricked up his ears. The Red 
 Mole subsided. 
 
 Old Scryme went forward and whispered rapidly in 
 his ear. The hairy monster shook like a leaf in the 
 breeze, and his lips made inarticulate sounds of pro- 
 test and assent. 
 
 Then Giles turned upon Mr. Horneycraft and bade 
 him good-night. 
 
 " You cannot leave this place ! " cried Horney- 
 craft. " I arrest you in the king's name ! The 
 place is surrounded ! " 
 
 " It's a lie ! " the tall youth on the staircase said 
 stolidly. 
 
 Horneycraft, who had almost forgotten his late 
 antagonist's existence, turned around with a start. 
 
 In that moment Giles Scrymegeour slipped past 
 him. Horneycraft sprang to stop his passage, but 
 Archibald hurled the collector back. 
 
 In another moment Giles Scrymegeour had reached 
 the public-house upstairs. As he stood for a moment, 
 [111]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 dazed with nervous reaction, he heard the stertorous 
 breathing of Mrs. Currie and smelt the taint of vine- 
 gar. Stricken with sudden horror, he rushed from 
 the place. He unhitched the shaggy pony and 
 scrambled into the saddle. From within he heard an 
 inner door close with a heavy slam and a rusty key 
 turn in the lock. 
 
 The miser lashed the pony into a gallop. About a 
 quarter of a mile down the hill he suddenly remem- 
 bered that if the crime was to be hidden, his appear- 
 ance must not be the first thing to arouse suspicion. 
 He drew the pony to a standstill and allowed the half- 
 winded animal to blow. Suddenly conscious of the 
 mountain silence around him Giles turned in the sad- 
 dle and looked at the dim light of Cothouse Inn. 
 
 He wondered what was going on in the cellar under 
 that house. Were they killing him now? 
 would Baldy do it? Smother him? Stab him? 
 
 As his mind danced from one alternative to an- 
 other, among the still mountains, echoing like the 
 shrieking of a million devils, went the long, wailing 
 cry of a human being in distress. 
 
 Giles Scrymegeour, with a gurgling noise in his 
 throat, brought down the lash upon the pony's head. 
 The animal lunged violently, then horse and rider 
 rushed down the hill road in mad flight. 
 
 [112]
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 LOVE OR DUTY? 
 
 GILES never slowed up until he was on the outskirts 
 of the town. Even then he urged the pony over the 
 same detour at a speed to arouse suspicion. For- 
 tunately for him he met no one, the harvest-home 
 having assimilated most of the population. 
 
 It had been Old Scryme's plan, once he had stabled 
 the pony, to go to bed. Suddenly it occurred to him 
 that an alibi was a poor thing if there was nobody to 
 witness it. There was only one move for him to 
 make, and his cowardly soul shrank from it. He 
 must appear at the harvest-home, and that as if he 
 had been there all the time. 
 
 Behold, then, the old scoundrel struggling with a 
 white linen shirt, which presently covered as black a 
 heart as beat that night in Morag. When fully 
 dressed he went away swiftly toward the laird's castle, 
 where he presently appeared in conversation with this 
 man and that, seeming at each encounter with his 
 acquaintances to have chanced upon them for the first 
 time, and expressing surprise thereat. 
 
 It was a very different scene from the cellar of the 
 [113]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 Cothouse Inn, this big hall of Morag Castle. The 
 fun was in full swing when the miser put in an ap- 
 pearance. The eating-tables had been thrust to the 
 walls or cleared away altogether. On one of them 
 sat Blind Johnny and his blind son, both with their 
 fiddles tucked under chin and dirling away at Scotch 
 dance music. The castle fairly shook with the simul- 
 taneous tap of hundreds of feet in the boisterous 
 Highland dances, while the air was split with the 
 exuberant " Hooch! Hooch! " 
 
 In the middle of the swirl was Smuggle-erie, as 
 master of the floor. His eyes were bright and his 
 face animated with the fire of excitement and pleas- 
 ure. Not far from him was Ben Larkin, with Grizel 
 on his arm. For once, Smuggle-erie seemed to have 
 forgotten his jealousy, and the way he swung an 
 isolated maid around, when his duties gave him a 
 chance, suggested that one lass was as good as an- 
 other when it came to a reel. 
 
 Around the walls, on the tables and chairs, were 
 the old folk of Morag, all looking on with reminiscent 
 smiles and fondness for their sons and daughters. 
 To see a mother's eyes follow a lass on the floor was 
 to imagine a picture of the dressing before the ball 
 the old mother's touch on the ribbons and curls and 
 the final approval; while the winking nudging 
 chuckling of the old men as the youngsters twirled 
 their partners about was a story in itself. 
 [114]
 
 Love or Duty? 
 
 The dominie was there, of course, with his chin 
 well-nigh settled on the handle of his staff, and at his 
 side was the voluble coast-guard. Near him was 
 Captain John Grant. 
 
 " And they dare to tell me in the face of this," 
 cried old Cookson, " that there are smugglers in 
 Morag? Why, sir, even if there were even if there 
 were, I say! what's the odds, by thunder? All's 
 fair in love and war. This is love, and strike me 
 to'gallants, that lass of your'n, cap'n, is the slip- 
 periest craft in the whole fleet." This, as Grizel 
 swung gracefully past with Larkin. " A trim craft, 
 sir, with a clean pair o' heels, and a noble consort, by 
 thunder ! A gentleman and an officer of the king 
 God bless 'im ! " 
 
 " The way o' youth the way o' youth ! " mourn- 
 fully murmured Grogblossom, who looked more like a 
 pig than ever in his best clothes. " It's a' very fine, 
 but change and decay'll bring wrinkles to them a' 
 and " 
 
 " Tut, tut ! " protested the dominie, turning upon 
 Grogblossom. " You speak, as the poet did, my 
 friend, of the roses that to-morrow will be dying, but 
 change and decay do not destroy the sense of the 
 poet's first thought, * Gather ye rosebuds while ye 
 may.' Life, my friend," he added with a paternal 
 smile upon Grogblossom, " is an experience. We live 
 it but once, so that each of its seven ages comes to us 
 [115]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 as a novelty. Even the grave, from which none has 
 returned to speak, may be, for all we can tell, another 
 novelty." 
 
 " That's book-larnin', by thunder book-larnin' ! " 
 cried Cookson, while Grogblossom drifted away, shak- 
 ing his head. " Talkin' o' experiences an* novelties, 
 sir, what you say is proved by facts. I knew a man 
 bo'sun o' the old Urgent as was a-haulin' at the 
 gaskets when a rope gave way an' he fell from the 
 mizzen-tree straight to the deck. Was 'e killed? 
 No, sir! The old Urgent rolled on a sea and the 
 man fell into the ocean. Was 'e drowned ? No, sir ! 
 The next sea flung 'im with tree-mendyus force right 
 aboard agin. That wave hit the deck like a twelve- 
 pounder dropped from the peak. Was 'e crushed? 
 No, sir! That man fell into the belly of the sail, like 
 a babby into a feather bed. And any man wot says 
 death wouldn't be a novelty to that man is either a 
 liar or no gentleman." 
 
 Cookson's yarn was greeted with a laugh, which 
 sounded louder in the cessation of the music. Ben 
 Larkin led Grizel to a seat, and the coast-guard 
 treated Captain Grant to a playful poke in the ribs 
 as the young couple began what was apparently a 
 very personal conversation. 
 
 Smuggle-erie seemed to pay no attention, but 
 busied himself about the floor, arranging the next 
 dance, which was that half-savage Highland romp 
 [116]
 
 Love or Duty? 
 
 the schottische. As it is properly danced in Scotland, 
 the partners face each other, hands on hips, dance a 
 few steps and trip off to the left, a few more steps 
 and run to the right, then with a " Hooch ! " they 
 fling themselves into each other's arms and swing 
 around with such momentum that the lady invariably 
 loses her footing. 
 
 But there was something extraordinary about this 
 schottische. The eyes of a great number of men 
 were upon Smuggle-erie. He suddenly looked across 
 the room at Giles Scrymegeour, who nodded his head 
 with a mysterious grin. The next moment the young 
 sailor was whispering in Blind Johnny's ear. The 
 old fiddler and his son tuned up, while the dancers got 
 ready, all asking, as usual, what the tune was to be. 
 
 The fiddles struck up, and immediately Ben Larkin 
 gave a start, for it was the tune that had puzzled him 
 so often. At the same time he failed to hear Grizel's 
 quiet voice; for close by him a gruff voice said in- 
 cautiously and with a note of exuberance: 
 
 " That means the morrin's night ! Come on, lads. 
 Kick up yer heels ! " 
 
 Next moment the floor was swarming, not only with 
 couples, but with pairs of men, principally of the 
 Thistle Down's crew, who romped around boisterously, 
 humming the lively air and stamping their feet at 
 the beginning of every line. 
 
 Although Larkin thought he perceived significance 
 [117]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 in it all, there was to the uninitiated nothing more 
 than the usual horse-play of the late dauce, when 
 cheeks are warm and eyes bright. 
 
 All at once Smuggle-erie's voice rang out at the 
 beginning of a verse : 
 
 " Pease brose again, mither, pease brose again ! " 
 
 And from almost every man in the room came 
 the response in a roar of delight and enthusiasm: 
 
 " Ye feed me like a blackbird, and me yer only wean ! " 
 
 " When does the Thistle Down sail ? " Ben Larkin 
 suddenly asked, turning to Grizel. 
 
 " To-morrow night," she replied innocently. 
 
 " Grizel, ye haven't given me a dance yet," said 
 Smuggle-erie, coming up. " Is the ' admiral ' to get 
 them all? " 
 
 " Certainly, I'll dance, Smuggle-erie," replied 
 Grizel, with a little toss of her head. " It's you that 
 have na asked me." 
 
 The two of them danced away into the crowd leav- 
 ing Ben Larkin with his heart heavy, not because she 
 had gone off with his rival, but with a sense that he 
 was being made a fool of as if missiles were flying 
 around his head from some unseen source. 
 
 He looked over the great room, and presently his 
 eyes fell upon Captain John Grant and Giles Scryme- 
 [118]
 
 Love or Duty? 
 
 geour. The two men were standing apart, and, at a 
 glance, Larkin was aware that they were engaged in 
 a quiet, tense argument. 
 
 The big sea-master's face was as black as a storm- 
 cloud. His mouth was set like a steel trap and his 
 arms were folded across his breast. Scrymegeour, in 
 order to whisper, was standing almost on tiptoe to 
 reach the giant's ear, and the miser's ratlike face was 
 stuck forward in an insinuating manner. 
 
 Larkin saw Grant suddenly turn upon his heel, say 
 something decisive over his shoulder, and walk out of 
 the hall. He did not come back. 
 
 When the wild dance was over, the smugglers or, 
 rather, the crew of the Thistle Down melted away 
 also. Smuggle-erie, alone of that brotherhood, re- 
 mained in the hall. He presently brought Grizel 
 back to her former partner, and surrendered her with 
 a readiness that was as astonishing to Larkin as it 
 was, somehow, disappointing to Grizel. 
 
 The nut-brown lass, it may as well be said truth- 
 fully, had not enjoyed her evening as much as the 
 old coast-guard supposed. She had danced with the 
 handsome young officer to the exclusion of nearly 
 everyone except the laird. Even that social tri- 
 umph had not taken from her heart a bitterness which 
 had suddenly sprung up with regard to Smuggle-erie. 
 She had expected that she would have humbled her 
 daredevil lover to the dust. In her heart she had 
 
 [119]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 decided that, before the night was over, she would 
 have granted Smuggle-erie the forgiveness for his 
 former churlishness which she had fully expected he 
 would have asked. 
 
 Smuggle-erie, however, had apparently played her 
 at her own game. What it cost him she had no means 
 of knowing. All she did know was that he had left 
 her, unprotested, in the hands of his rival, and had 
 seemingly enjoyed himself in every dance with every 
 other lass. Before that night she had never stopped 
 to consider which of the two lovers she preferred. 
 Now she knew that she preferred one of them, but 
 which ? 
 
 A woman's heart, under such circumstances, is often 
 as much of a mystery to herself as it is to her ad- 
 mirers. She suddenly felt a dependence on Ben Lar- 
 kin, but the thought that such dependence was Hob- 
 son's choice, stung her pride. When the lieutenant 
 requested the honor of the next dance with a confi- 
 dence that it would be granted because it was the last 
 she pettishly declined, and a few minutes later Ben 
 Larkin saw her tripping with the laird. 
 
 But he captured her at the last, when the dancers 
 were dispersing. The harvest-home itself was over, 
 but there was something further in connection with it 
 that Ben Larkin had in mind. Mrs. Martin, who 
 should have been at the celebration, was confined at 
 home with the " rheumatics," as she put it, and the 
 [120]
 
 Love or Duty? 
 
 girl's escort had been left to her father and the host 
 of other lasses who would be homeward bound for 
 Morag. Larkin, however, adroitly bore her off alone, 
 determined to profit by his opportunity. 
 
 The short distance to the gate of the cottage with 
 the flagstaff was passed over in significant silence. 
 Larkin had only one thing to say, to the exclusion of 
 all others. He would have talked out that one thing, 
 but he felt all at once that the time was unpropitious. 
 What he had to say had been all cut and dried in his 
 mind, but the incident of the last dance had upset his 
 calculations. 
 
 At the gate he took her hand, having decided that, 
 after all, " Good-night " would be sufficient for the 
 occasion. 
 
 The touch of her fingers sent all his ideas flying, 
 and he could only blurt out: 
 
 " You are angry with me, Grizel? I was so happy 
 until the until the last. What did I do? Just tell 
 me." 
 
 " Angry at you ? " she echoed. " Why should I 
 be angry at you ? " 
 
 She impatiently tried to draw away her hand, but 
 his closed firmly over it, and it lingered. 
 
 " I I'm angry at myself," she said, with a queer 
 gulp. 
 
 " Grizel ! " he said, his voice deep with feeling, 
 " until you ran off and left me like that, I felt that 
 [121]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 between you and me there would be no need for words 
 that you would know before I spoke what was in 
 my heart to say. I love you, lass, and if you love 
 me I'll go to my sleep to-night the happiest man in 
 Morag the proudest man in the king's service. 
 Grizel " 
 
 Her chin hung low on her bosom. He could see the 
 glint of her brown hair in the starlight, and hear the 
 soft, deep sound of her breathing. But she gave no 
 answer. Nor did she withdraw her hand. Even 
 when his arm stole around her shoulders and his hand 
 raised her face to his, she made no sound, nor did she 
 resist. It was sweet to her; and though she felt 
 shame, something bound her with cords of joy. 
 
 Yet there was a sting of regret. She had known 
 Smuggle-erie so long ; and though he had hurt her, it 
 seemed hard, unfair, to give him up like this. 
 
 She opened her eyes, but did not look into Ben's 
 face. Her gaze sought the stars beyond his shoulder, 
 and the memory of many a communing with them 
 reminded her that the great moment of a woman's 
 life had come. She must answer she must answer. 
 And by her answer would come woe or weal for him 
 and for her and for Smuggle-erie. 
 
 ' Tell me, Grizel, is it that you love someone bet- 
 ter? " he said. " Just tell me and I'll go. But I 
 think you do love me, little woman. Look at me, 
 Grizel look at me and you'll know." 
 [122]
 
 Love or Duty? 
 
 She slowly turned her eyes, and they lifted to his. 
 The dim starlight fell on her upturned face, and he 
 could see the earnestness of her gaze. It seemed years 
 while he watched the changing thoughts in it. Hers 
 was no love that would flash up and die as quickly, 
 but a deep tide that moved unseen and would swell 
 with time. 
 
 " Grizel ! " he whispered. 
 
 She opened her lips as if to speak, but suddenly 
 they hung, parted. In the stillness, to their strain- 
 ing senses, came voices from the cottage. 
 
 Larkin raised his eyes impatiently. The window 
 of the parlor was open, for the night was. a little 
 sultry. 
 
 Giles Scrymegeour was speaking within. 
 
 " The ship is mine ! " he said, raising his voice 
 angrily. 
 
 Captain Grant replied: 
 
 " I'll fight ye on that. Even so, I'll not be master 
 of it with another dishonest keg." 
 
 " Then let yer lass marry Smuggle-erie, and I'll 
 gie ye back yer signature an' make the lad skipper." 
 
 " The lass'll not marry him on these terms ! " was 
 the sullen response. 
 
 " Weel," said the voice of Scrymegeour, after a 
 long pause, " ye've turned gey releegious in yer auld 
 age, but releegion was no made to save John Grant 
 and put his freens in jail." 
 
 [123]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " I will not turn informer," said the other sullenly. 
 
 " Na? " sneered old Scryme. " It would be a 
 bonny piece o' information that a' man wi' your 
 record could furnish, nae doot. Ye were no that 
 parteeklar in the past aboot yer women folk." 
 
 " I have suffered for it," was the monotone re- 
 sponse. 
 
 " Ye micht suffer worse again if a wee bird, for in- 
 stance, was to whisper in your lass's ear that her 
 father, Captain John Grant, was Heather Bloom, 
 wanted by the king's ' 
 
 Giles stopped, as if frightened himself by the words 
 he was thus recklessly using. 
 
 There came a guttural, comprehending " Ah ! " 
 from Grant; then the parlor window shut suddenly, 
 and there was silence. 
 
 Larkin's arm had never untwined from the girl's 
 body, nor had her eyes shifted from his, but into them 
 had come a look of dread agony despair. 
 
 When the Fates had wrought their worst upon her, 
 she drew herself away from his unresisting clasp and 
 stared unbelievingly at his pain-stricken face. 
 
 " Oh ! " she whispered, and the word was drawn out 
 like a moan. " Oh, my father ! My father ! " 
 
 He looked at her. His throat was choked with the 
 sense of the great wrong she had suffered. The help- 
 lessness of his own position paralyzed him. 
 
 " Forgive me, lass ! " he suddenly cried. 
 [124]
 
 Love or Duty? 
 
 " It's not you must ask," she sobbed. " Oh, my 
 father ! My father ! " And with a weariness of 
 pain in her voice, she turned away with a sobbed 
 " Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night, lass," he said hoarsely. 
 
 Then, as she walked toward the cottage, he looked 
 up at the stars, and laughed bitterly. 
 
 [125]
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE COUNCIL IN THE CAVE 
 
 BEN LARKIN staggered back to the coast-guard 
 station that night like a drunken man. Fate had 
 waved a sword between him and his love. In that 
 magic flash he had seen the impossibility of happiness 
 with Grizel, and at the same time the blade had hewn 
 a clear-cut path to his duty. 
 
 He was too dazed with the sudden searing of his 
 soul, and the memory of the girl's agony, to form any 
 plan of action. He could think only of two things 
 that his duty was to arrest Captain John Grant in 
 the name of the king, and, by that act, inflict agony 
 upon himself and upon the woman he loved. 
 
 Alas, for himself and Grizel! If he had only 
 lingered a moment longer by the gate and taken his 
 cue to action from what he would have seen, it might 
 have saved a world of trouble. 
 
 He was hardly out of sight of the cottage with the 
 flagstaff before the door opened and Giles Scryme- 
 geour came out followed by Heather Bloom. 
 
 The miser looked carefully about to see that they 
 [126]
 
 The Council in the Cave 
 
 were not observed; then the two men started in the 
 direction of the Bull Rock. 
 
 Neither spoke a word, but their footsteps went by 
 mutual understanding of the destination. Giles 
 walked with the nervous, light step of a man who is 
 keyed up by past events and eager to get done with 
 future ones. His companion strode along with his 
 head sunk on his chest, like one who hates what he is 
 doing, but has decided to do it. 
 
 They came to the abandoned lodge by the gate. 
 The last of the merrymakers had straggled home, 
 and the castle grounds were as still as on any other 
 night of the year, when not one in a thousand of the 
 countryside would have ventured near the " haunted " 
 lodge. 
 
 Old Scryme gave the whistle, and, at the 
 response, they marched up to the door of the 
 " deserted " house, which was opened quickly to admit 
 them. 
 
 Without any ado, Scrymegeour and Heather 
 Bloom stepped inside, climbed down the ladder to the 
 cave, and an unseen sentinel closed the trap-door 
 after them. 
 
 Inside the cave, there were half a dozen smugglers 
 sitting upon old boxes and barrels around a keg, upon 
 which were a bottle and glasses and a tallow dip. 
 Among the men were Smuggle-erie, Grogblossom, and 
 the Red Mole, the latter having the appearance of in- 
 [127]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 toxication. They rose to a man as Heather Bloom 
 appeared. 
 
 " Well ! " the big sea-master growled. " What's 
 all this stage play about? What's this council for? 
 Have none of you any understanding, or are my 
 brains unusually sharp? As I take it, the stuff will 
 leave Cothouse to-morrow night or to-night, I sup- 
 pose at twelve o'clock, which will bring it here at 
 one, or a bit later. Smuggle-erie will see it through, 
 and the Thistle Down will sail at dawn. Is that clear 
 enough, or must I sit here all night and drive it into 
 you?" 
 
 Heather Bloom topped his sarcasm with a curse. 
 The Red Mole looked sleepily across at Giles Scryme- 
 geour, who flashed him a knowing, but nervous grin. 
 Smuggle-erie's brows knitted, and he glanced from 
 the king of smugglers to the miser. He saw at once 
 that there had been a conflict. 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir ! " said he soothingly. " It's all 
 clear. But we don't want any risk about this 
 especially this." 
 
 " Aye, this especially this ! " Heather Bloom 
 ripped out. " Men of the Thistle Down ! " And he 
 addressed them all in a comprehensive wave of his 
 hand. " Understand what I have to say : 
 
 " You have served me, and those behind me, and 
 yourselves, pretty well in the last twenty years. 
 We've established for ourselves a reputation that has 
 [128]
 
 The Council in the Cave 
 
 sent better men to the gallows. My schooner has at 
 various times shown a creditable pair of heels to the 
 government's craft. I personally have stood on the 
 poop of my ship, toasted the damnation of the 
 king, and flung the glass at the revenue officer's 
 head. 
 
 " Very good ! Very admirable ! But, once and for 
 all, that's done with. If, after to-night, the Thistle 
 Down sails again with John Grant as master, it will 
 be with an honest cargo and an honest crew. I'll no 
 more see my girl dance to the tune of her father's 
 crime." This with a savage glance at Smuggle-erie. 
 " I'll no more yield to a worm in distorted human 
 shape who drives me to sea on the innocence of my 
 lass. You're a bad lot and I've been the worst 
 of ye but I've always found that you were men, in 
 spite of your failings. I put it to you as men : Would 
 you force a man to commit a crime with the threat 
 of babbling his former crimes to his daughter my 
 daughter, Grizel Grant, who thinks her father, John 
 Grant, a pillar of respectability, while all the time he 
 is a miserable, thieving, tax-dodger, slaving under 
 the mortgages of that slimy eel you see there oozing 
 with fear? " 
 
 Heather Bloom's finger pointed straight at Giles 
 Scrymegeour, whose face was set in a sickly 
 grin, in an attempt to pass over the matter as a 
 jest. 
 
 [129]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 The smugglers looked at the miser and growled 
 their disgust. Smuggle-erie gave a short laugh and 
 said: 
 
 " Suppose we tie a stone to nunky's feet and drop 
 him in the pool, as he was for doing with me twelve 
 years ago ? " 
 
 The suggestion met with some approval. Old 
 Scryme's grin became more sickly. Grant rapped 
 his knuckles on a barrel-head. 
 
 " If ever I was near tempted to murder, or ap- 
 prove murder of, anything, it is now," he went on. 
 " But enough of this ! I've passed my word, and I'll 
 keep it. I'll run the Thistle Down and her cargo 
 through. But this is the last time. And if any man 
 has anything to say, let him say it now, or for- 
 ever after hold his peace! If he doesn't, he'll 
 have the man that was Heather Bloom to reckon 
 with!" 
 
 One of the smugglers got to his feet, 
 urged by a few of the others, and saluted awk- 
 wardly. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " we're mighty sorry to lose ye 
 me an' the rest. Ye've been a good seaman and a 
 better smuggler. What you said was always the 
 word for us. An' as for anything else, we'll stan' by 
 ye, cap'n in spite o' him ! " The speaker gave a 
 vicious nod in the direction of Old Scryme and sat 
 down. 
 
 [130]
 
 The Council in the Cave 
 
 " Thanks ! " said the captain shortly. " Now, 
 then, to business ! " 
 
 The bringing of the whisky from Cothouse was 
 gone over, and the safest mode of conveying it aboard 
 without suspicion. From the discussion, it was ap- 
 parent that the Thistle Down was bound ostensibly 
 for Bristol, but that there was a rendezvous off a 
 lonely part of the English coast for the transfer of 
 the illicit liquor. This also was fully gone into, as 
 was the matter of the tides. 
 
 " The only difference this trip," said Smuggle-erie, 
 " is the extra trouble to be expected from the revenue 
 in the Firth. What about the coast-guard, and Mr. 
 Horneycraft, and the officer with the brass buttons? 
 Cookson, of course, don't count. The dominie always 
 spends Sunday night with him, and once these two 
 are together you could take away the coast-guard 
 station, roof, telescope, and all, without interrupting 
 old Jack." 
 
 " Horneycraft? " said Heather Bloom. " Remem- 
 ber, I can have no possibility of a trap this time. 
 What about Horneycraft?" 
 
 There was silence, broken by Smuggle-erie. 
 
 "Where is Horneycraft? He hasn't been near 
 Morag for three days. Alec was on his track. 
 What about Horneycraft, Sandy ? " 
 
 Alec, or Sandy, a young, light-haired smuggler, 
 scratched his head and looked confused. 
 [131]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " I canna rightly say," he said. " For two days 
 he was prowlin' up aroond the Red Mole's place, as 
 the Red Mole kens." 
 
 " What about him, Red Heid ? " demanded Smug- 
 gle-erie, roughly shaking the Red Mole, who had 
 fallen into a drunken sleep. 
 
 " Eh ? " said he stupidly, half waking up. 
 " Wha? Hoarney craft ? He'll no bother ye. He's 
 dead! " 
 
 "Eh!" thundered Heather Bloom. "What is 
 that man saying? " 
 
 " Eh? " cried the Red Mole, waking up to his full 
 senses. "What was ye sayin'? Aw Hoarney- 
 craft! I dinna ken. How should I ken? But he'll 
 no bother ye. Archibald'll atten' t' that." And he 
 fell asleep again. 
 
 Heather Bloom looked from the drunken animal to 
 the men around the cave. His eye fell upon Giles 
 Scrymegeour, who was grinning and wiping his lips 
 with his handkerchief. 
 
 "You were at Cothouse to-night? " 
 
 " I was not! " asserted the miser. 
 
 " Eh? " muttered the Red Mole. 
 
 " Did ye murder the man ? " asked Smuggle-erie at 
 playful random. 
 
 " Murder ! " gasped Giles. " Guid forgie us, what 
 an awfu' word! I tell ye I wasna at the Cothouse 
 maseP. But trust Archibald trust Archibald ! " 
 [132]
 
 The Council in the Cave 
 
 The matter was dropped, and Lieutenant Ben Lar- 
 kin was the new subject. 
 
 "There, to tell you the truth," said Heather 
 Bloom, " is the only man I'm afeared o'. What he 
 does not ken, I am certain he suspects. He is the 
 man whose doings must be watched." 
 
 [133]
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 SMUGGLE-ERIE FALLS FROM GRACE 
 
 WHATEVER plan Smuggle-erie had in mind for 
 the outwitting of Ben Larkin if, indeed, he had 
 any was upset next day by a curt note from Grizel 
 Grant. It was inclosed in an envelope, and was 
 handed to him by Daft Tommy, who was Morag's 
 " ne'er-do-weel," save in the matter of simple errands. 
 The note read: 
 
 Be so good as to meet me by the castle gate after kirk service 
 to-night. I have discovered something upon which you can 
 further enlighten me and, besides, I feel that you and I should 
 better understand each other before I speak to my father. 
 
 GRIZEL. 
 
 " Now, I wonder if this was meant for me or 
 somebody else? " Smuggle-erie asked himself, as he 
 stared at the odd message and then glanced back 
 at the slack-jawed, dull-eyed idiot who had brought 
 it. " Who gave you this, Tommy ? " 
 
 " Miss Girzie," said Daft Tommy, chuckling and 
 grinning. "An* she gied me a bawbee an' promist 
 to marry me oh, aye! She promist to marry me, 
 [134]
 
 Smuggle-erie Falls from Grace 
 
 an' I've got witnesses to prove it witnesses to prove 
 it!" 
 
 Smuggle-erie paid no attention to the lad's de- 
 lusion, but frowned at the letter on his knees. He 
 was seated on an overturned boat on the beach, and 
 as he read the message for the fourth time he slowly 
 nodded his head. 
 
 " Here ! " said he, cutting a chew of tobacco and 
 tossing it to Daft Tommy. " Tell Miss Girzie that 
 you gave me the letter and that I said * All 
 right.' " 
 
 With many a chuckle Daft Tommy went off with 
 the answer, and Smuggle-erie was left with the note 
 on his knees. The thing was a mystery to him. If 
 it had been intended for his eyes, then its contents 
 were as Greek, although, if it was to be accepted 
 just as it read, Smuggle-erie was sure that some- 
 thing had happened at the cottage with the flagstaff. 
 It could only be that Grizel's eyes had been opened 
 to the smuggling. 
 
 Against that was the idea that the note had been 
 intended for Ben Larkin, and as Smuggle-erie reread 
 the missive with this in mind he bit his lip savagely. 
 One way or another, Larkin figured largely in it. If 
 Grizel had discovered the secret of the smugglers, 
 then it was time ' finis ' be written to Larkin's love- 
 making, and if it was merely that the note had been 
 
 delivered into the wrong hand 
 
 [135]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " So that's where they are ! " thought Smuggle- 
 erie. 
 
 Having accepted the mistaken delivery idea for 
 the moment and abandoned himself to a fit of savage 
 jealousy, Smuggle-erie's next thought was what he 
 should do with the note. Send it to Larldn I Well, 
 it might not be intended for Larkin. Send it back 
 to Grizel? It would be risking an insult. Go and 
 ask her for whom she had intended it? And if she 
 should say " Larkin " ? Smuggle-erie shrank from 
 the humiliation. Then, with a laugh at his own 
 stupidity, he picked up the envelope which he had 
 thrown upon the sand. Upon it was written in a 
 steady, schoolgirl hand : " Mr. Dick Scryme- 
 geour." 
 
 Of course, it was for him ! Then what did it mean ? 
 His conscience the conscience of the shrewd rather 
 than of the guilty told him that it could be but 
 one thing she had discovered. But how? Was it 
 possible that Old Scryme had enlightened her a little 
 in order to force Grant to sail the contraband to 
 England? Or had the miserly demon done it to 
 bring about Grizel's marriage with Smuggle-erie, 
 so that his grip might be tightened upon all con- 
 cerned? After the first flash of rage at this possi- 
 bility, Smuggle-erie dismissed the idea as both un- 
 likely and unprofitable. No! Grizel had discovered 
 something by accident, or possibly through Larkin. 
 [136]
 
 Smuggle-erie Falls from Grace 
 
 Smuggle-erie smiled. If this were so, the revenue 
 officer had scored a point his first and a doubtful 
 one at that. Smuggle-erie could play that game, 
 too. He remembered his promise to " attend to 
 Larkin," and now a plan began to take shape in his 
 mind. 
 
 True, the plan was not a highly honorable one. 
 Indeed, it was the very opposite; but Smuggle-erie 
 would not shrink from it if he were at all sure that 
 Ben Larkin had whispered his suspicions in the girl's 
 ear. To his mind two wrongs could easily make a 
 right. 
 
 He read the note again, folded it very carefully, 
 and held it between his forefinger and thumb, the 
 while he looked blankly across the calm Firth. He 
 had read of the thing in a book the thing he con- 
 templated ; he had read of it often, without believing 
 that it could ever present itself in life as a matter 
 easy of execution. But he never remembered having 
 read of such favorable circumstances as presented 
 themselves in this case. The addressing of the en- 
 velope would be an easy matter. Surely Lieutenant 
 Ben Larkin had not progressed so far in his love- 
 making that he was minutely acquainted with her 
 handwriting. And, then, the letter itself was pre- 
 fixed with no name, nor did it contain any subject- 
 matter that might not have been addressed to a 
 perfect stranger. Indeed, it was the tone of it that 
 [137]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 had made Smuggle-erie think for a moment that it 
 was not intended for him. 
 
 He sat on a boat for a half -hour, his brows knitted 
 and his underlip stuck out. It never occurred to him 
 that it would be dishonorable to trap Larkin with 
 Grizel's note; but, nevertheless, he was uneasy about 
 it. It was not his kind of fighting; that was all. 
 He would have scorned to strike a man when down, 
 or to hit an antagonist below the belt in a fist-fight. 
 While his uneasiness over what he contemplated may 
 have been really an instinctive aversion to a mean 
 act, yet his untutored chivalry failed to understand 
 or to concern itself with more than the probable suc- 
 cess of the enterprise. 
 
 Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and went away 
 toward Giles Scrymegeour's shop, where " nunky " 
 was presently mystified by his usually boisterous 
 " nephew's " silence and his diligent destruction of 
 envelopes and quills. Smuggle-erie labored over that 
 envelope address for an hour, his forehead damp with 
 perspiration and his tongue hanging from the corner 
 of his mouth as he toiled with the intricacies of the 
 " i-e-u " in " lieutenant." 
 
 That it was a monument of misspent energy he 
 would have realized had he seen Larkin, an hour or 
 two later, tear the envelope open and cast it aside. 
 The lieutenant glanced impatiently over the message, 
 for he was in no good humor, but suddenly his face 
 [138]
 
 The coast-guard men and the cutter would patrol 
 the Firth from dusk 
 
 Pa^e 1*
 
 Smuggle-erie Falls from Grace 
 
 brightened as his eyes fell upon the magic word 
 " Grizel." He sat down in the coast-guard station 
 and puzzled long and deeply over the message. 
 
 She had discovered something upon which he could 
 further enlighten her further ! Of course, it was 
 the matter of her father. He reflected that she 
 might have spared him the pain of that. His position 
 was bad enough, and his duty was clear enough. 
 But she " felt " that he and she " should better under- 
 stand each other " before she spoke to her father. 
 She could not mean love. That were preposterous 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 " ' You and I should better understand each other 
 before I speak to my father,' " he echoed mentally. 
 " What can she mean ? It can't be that she would 
 have me that she would trade with me ! ' Under- 
 stand each other ? ' * Understand ' The thing 
 
 is impossible, anyway ! " With that he flung the 
 letter on the table in the coast-guard parlor and 
 made up his mind not to think more of it. 
 
 He would not keep the appointment. No profit 
 could come by it, but pain to both. His duty was 
 clear, although the way to it was not yet free of 
 obstacle. But his plan had been formed before this 
 message arrived. 
 
 The Thistle Down was to sail at dawn, with the 
 tide. The coast-guard men and the cutter would 
 patrol Morag and the Firth from dusk until the 
 [139]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 schooner was out of sight. Of one thing Larkin 
 was certain; that the Thistle Down would sail with 
 every man of her crew aboard, or satisfactorily 
 accounted for especially Smuggle-erie ! Without 
 that man aboard, the schooner should not weigh 
 anchor. He was determined on this point. It would 
 be smuggling of an amazing order which could escape 
 the vigilance of the coast-guard this night. 
 
 So far he had not communicated his orders to Cook- 
 son or to the men. He was still waiting with im- 
 patience and a growing uneasiness for the reappear- 
 ance of Horneycraft. Where was the man? He 
 had been missing for two days, although Larkin had 
 heard it rumored that he was seen around the Cot- 
 house but twenty-four hours before. What was the 
 man doing? It was the thought that possibly the 
 long-nosed collector had discovered something which 
 stayed the lieutenant on the decision of a definite 
 plan of action. He had no desire to conflict with 
 Horneycraft, if it could be avoided. 
 
 He picked up the letter, and read it over and over. 
 He wondered what the girl could have to say. It 
 could be nothing against her father that she had 
 discovered. He knew Grizel too well to believe that 
 she would reveal anything against her parent, 
 Heather Bloom though he was. Then, what could 
 it be? 
 
 When six o'clock came that evening, Larkin was 
 [140]
 
 Smuggle-erie Falls from Grace 
 
 impatiently walking up and down on the strip of 
 sand below the barren rocks where the coast-guard 
 station stood. The old bell of the parish kirk was 
 humming over the bay and echoing among the hills. 
 It brought back to Ben's mind the parlor of the 
 cottage with the flagstaff, on the previous Sunday 
 evening, and in his mind he presently heard the 
 tender passion of the little harmonium and saw the 
 firelight glint of Grizel's brown hair and pink cheek. 
 
 " Meet me by the castle gate after kirk service 
 to-night! " 
 
 The words echoed in his brain with the humming 
 of the kirk bell. He could imagine her walking 
 demurely through Morag at that moment with her 
 book of psalms and paraphrases, and presently her 
 voice would join with the others in praise of her 
 Maker. He knew now that she had been innocent 
 of all knowledge of the smugglers ; and, knowing that, 
 was it not his duty to obey the order of the message? 
 It must be something that he ought to know; he 
 felt that, otherwise, the delicacy of the sweet lass 
 would have forbidden that letter. 
 
 He stopped in his walk, and in another moment 
 he had decided. He would go, and trust the inter- 
 view to yield some guiding-point for the night's 
 action. It might be something about Horneycraft 
 a message from Horneycraft, even. In any event it 
 would be but an hour's delay. During that time the 
 
 [141]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 smugglers could have little chance to get away with 
 a contraband boat, for it was still the long light of 
 the Indian summer evenings. It would hardly be 
 dark before nine o'clock. The cutter lay ready by 
 the gangplank, and the crew smoked their pipes while 
 awaiting orders in the coast-guard station. 
 
 The kirk bell stopped as Larkin retired to his 
 room and prepared himself for the meeting with 
 Grizel. He smiled as he remarked his own little 
 vanity in the details of dress, and he was unashamed 
 to admit to himself that his heart beat a higher note 
 at the prospect of seeing her again, for weal or 
 woe. 
 
 He took a long time to dress, so that when he left 
 the coast-guard house, smart in his bright uniform, 
 and stepped jauntily toward Morag on his way to the 
 castle gate, the good folk were coming from the kirk. 
 Toward the coast-guard station, arm-in-arm, came 
 the dominie and old Cookson, both of them already 
 involved in lore and history. Ben Larkin passed a 
 few words of instruction to the coast-guard an'd, 
 with a respectful salute to the dominie, passed on. 
 
 As he went through Morag, he saw, some way 
 ahead of him, the neat little figure that had become 
 the center of his life. She did not stop at the gate 
 of the cottage with the flagstaff, except to cast a 
 glance over her shoulder. Whether she saw and 
 recognized Larkin, he had no means of knowing, 
 
 [ 142 J
 
 Smuggle-erie Falls from Grace 
 
 but she quickened her step and walked rather hur- 
 riedly toward the castle gate. 
 
 Larkin wondered at this. Why could she not 
 speak to him by the cottage gate? Why all this 
 mystery? He suddenly remembered, with an uneasy 
 qualm, that the castle gate was by the Bull Rock, 
 the scene of his previous misadventure. He won- 
 dered if the precedent might be taken as an omen. 
 
 The coast road, as it neared the castle gate and 
 the lodge, curved somewhat, so that Ben lost sight 
 of Grizel until he was almost within speaking distance 
 of her. Then, even in the dim light of dusk, he 
 noticed an attempt on her part to conceal herself 
 in the shadow of the broken-down estate wall. He 
 advanced swiftly and held out his hand. 
 
 " You sent for me, Grizel? " 
 
 She drew back with a sudden, frightened widening 
 of her eyes, which he noticed at the moment and 
 did not fail to remember later. 
 
 " I sent for you ? " she faltered. 
 
 " Did you not ? " he asked, drawing back stiffly. 
 
 " I don't understand. I you " she stam- 
 mered. 
 
 Before he could say anything, a cloud fell across 
 his vision and he experienced the dry, disagreeable 
 sensation of cloth enveloping his head. Simultane- 
 ously his arms were pinioned behind him and a voice 
 said quietly: 
 
 [ 143 1
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Don't make a noise ! Nobody means you harm." 
 
 For answer, Ben Larkin exerted all his strength 
 and succeeded in flinging off the grip that held his 
 arms pinioned. He threw his hands to his head in 
 an effort to get rid of the smothering cloth, but at 
 the first sign of a struggle he found himself in the 
 embrace of two or three men. 
 
 The struggle lasted less than a minute. He was 
 conscious, through it all, of a strangely familiar 
 voice, whispering: 
 
 "Don't hurt him! Don't hurt him!" Then, 
 when it was apparent that Larkin had no intention 
 of yielding, the same voice said : " Knock him on the 
 head, then, but careful ! " 
 
 The next moment Larkin experienced a dull shock 
 in the back of his neck. He fell into abysmal dark- 
 ness, through which a bitter, despairing voice cried : 
 
 " Ben ! Ben ! Oh, forgive me ! Forgive me ! " 
 
 [144]
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A THOROUGH UNDERSTANDING 
 
 " YES, sir ! " cried the coast-guard, bringing down 
 his fist with an emphatic crack on the arm of his 
 chair. " Orders is orders, and if the adm'ral says, 
 ' Stand by till I come alongside,' stand by it is ! But 
 where in thunder is the lad? One o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, sir ! " 
 
 Jack Cookson glared at the old clock, whose pendu- 
 lum was wagging relentlessly through the hours, and 
 snorted with all his might and main. 
 
 " First Mister Horneycraft. Now the adm'ral. 
 By thunder ! Pll be missing next ! " 
 
 " Indeed," said the dominie, who sat up with the 
 coast-guard, sharing his alarm when a cessation of 
 story-telling had reminded them that the hour was 
 late and Larkin still absent ; " indeed, is it not our 
 duty your duty rather to institute a search 
 party? " 
 
 " Sir ! " snorted Cookson. " With all due respecks 
 
 for book-larnin' an' sich, do you dare to tell me 
 
 what my dooty is? Orders is orders, sir, and here 
 
 I sit till the mornin' watch, or until the adm'ral comes 
 
 [145]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 aboard. Strike my colors, sir? Do you take me 
 for a Frenchman? " 
 
 " Orders is orders," said the dominie wisely. " In- 
 deed, I do not doubt but what you may be in the 
 right of it, my friend. England's greatest victories 
 leaving aside England's greatest blunders are 
 due to this great sense of the written rule, as applied 
 to duty. So it was with the Romans and the Spar- 
 tans. But there is no rule, my friend, which is not 
 susceptible of exception, and something tells me that 
 in this case your orders are in conflict with your 
 duty. It is now six hours since Lieutenant Larkin 
 left the station " 
 
 " Sir ! " Cookson thundered. " That may be book- 
 larnin' an' for book-larnin' an' sich there's none has 
 such a mighty respeck as John Cookson, quartermas- 
 ter, sir, in the service of his majesty, God bless 'im ! 
 but the bookedest larn'dest professor in the whole 
 country can't tell me there's a difference atween 
 orders an' dooty." 
 
 " You misconceive me ! " the dominie protested. 
 " One's orders may, on an occasion, conflict with one's 
 personal sense of duty. For instance " 
 
 "What do you know of conflict?" roared Cook- 
 son. " I tell you, conflict or pipin' times o' peace, 
 dooty Is dooty and orders is orders! " 
 
 There came a sudden, feeble beating at the door. 
 
 " What's that? " said the dominie with a start. 
 [146]
 
 A Thorough Understanding 
 
 " What's what ? " the coast-guard bellowed. " Just 
 what I say, and let it rest at that. Dooty, sir " 
 
 Even Cookson stopped. The feeble beating at 
 the door was suddenly reenforced by a faint voice 
 a woman's voice crying : 
 
 " Mr. Cookson ! Admiral Cookson ! Open the 
 door ! " 
 
 A moment later Larkin staggered into the parlor 
 of the coast-guard station alone. His uniform was 
 covered with mud and slightly torn. His face was 
 pale as a dead man's, but his eyes were bright with 
 the insane glow of a disordered intellect. He swung 
 on one heel for a moment, then lurched forward into 
 the dominie's arms. 
 
 " Muster the men ! " he gasped. " The smugglers 
 are out ! " 
 
 " Smugglers ! " roared Cookson, blowing like a 
 grampus. " You mean to tell me that they have 
 dared to strike down a king's officer ? What ho ! 
 Coast-guard ! Turn out ! Turn out ! " 
 
 The dominie staggered under the weight of Larkin 
 and managed to get him on the settle. The lieuten- 
 ant opened his eyes and smiled up in the kind old face. 
 
 " Here I am again," he whispered. " Sunday's 
 my unlucky day and and that's my unlucky place. 
 Tell Cookson the lodge Bull Rock." His eyes 
 closed and his face took on a gray-blue pallor. 
 
 " Mmmmm ! " hummed the dominie. " I shall ex- 
 [147]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 amine his skull. But, first plenty of air plenty 
 of air." 
 
 Having loosened the sick man's collar, he turned 
 and opened all the windows, through which came the 
 ruffle of oars and the tramping of the coast-guards' 
 feet. The dominie, in the professional preoccupation 
 of the moment, forgot to give Cookson the instruc- 
 tions he had received, and only remembered them some 
 time afterward, when Ben Larkin, opening his eyes, 
 said: 
 
 " And find that woman yes, find that woman ! 
 She went away ! " 
 
 Two hours later, when Cookson with his men re- 
 turned, empty-handed and with no information, the 
 lieutenant was dozing under the influence of a drug 
 the dominie had administered. 
 
 " Nothing serious," said the old-fashioned physi- 
 cian, smiling. " He has had a blow on the head, but 
 I find no fracture, although sometimes the best may 
 err on that point. He will have fever yes, he 
 will have fever. That, I fancy, will be the 
 worst." 
 
 " By thunder ! " stormed the coast-guard, " if 
 ever I lay hands on the swabs, I'll keelhaul 'em an' 
 masthead 'em and hang 'em in chains for the crows 
 to pick ! " 
 
 Larkin opened his eyes. 
 
 " Did you find the woman ? " he asked. 
 [148]
 
 A Thorough Understanding 
 
 " The woman ? " asked the dominie. " What 
 woman ? " 
 
 Larkin sighed, and lay still for a minute or two 
 with closed eyes. 
 
 " Grizel Grant. Her father is Heather Bloom," 
 he said stonily. " She betrayed me decoyed me. 
 She brought me here." 
 
 " Oh, dear, dear ! " said the dominie soothingly. 
 " You must not talk like that. Sleep, my friend 
 try to sleep." 
 
 The coast-guard sorrowfully tapped his head. 
 Larkin was, indeed, half delirious, but at intervals 
 he so harked back to the subject that the dominie 
 was finally moved to believe the patient was in earnest. 
 
 " Arrest the master of the Thistle Down ! " said 
 Ben Larkin faintly. " Sequester the ship ' 
 
 " But the Thistle Down's gone ! " said Cookson. 
 " I saw her weigh ten minutes ago." 
 
 The lieutenant groaned and turned a reproachful 
 eye upon the old coast-guard. 
 
 " Cookson," said he, " if Horatio Nelson can see 
 you now, he's blushing for his old quartermaster." 
 
 The coast-guard stared stupidly at the sick man 
 for a moment. Then, across his face came a look 
 of understanding, and tears sprang into his eyes. 
 
 " Adm'ral ! " he said, and his voice was choked 
 with genuine grief. " Keelhaul me f'r a lubber. 
 Maybe old Jack Cookson's too old for sarvice it's 
 [149]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 nigh on twenty-five years since Trafalgar but I 
 I done my b-best, adm'ral, and " 
 
 " Spoken like a British sailor," said the patient 
 with a smile, and wearily holding out his hand. 
 " Forgive me, old lad. You aren't all to blame. 
 I'm beaten, too." 
 
 "Tut! Tut!" the dominie protested. "This is 
 nonsense. Get out of here, Cookson. You, my 
 friend, must sleep." 
 
 " One moment," said Larkin. " Coast-guard, find 
 that woman find Grizel Grant and bring her to 
 me here ! " 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir ! " said Cookson, saluting. As the 
 poor, old, obsolete sailor went out, he dashed away 
 a tear and said : " I believe that's all I'm good for 
 overhaulin' females. But," he added to himself, by 
 way of consolation, " I've seen things in my day ! " 
 
 It was nearly noon on Monday when Larkin awoke 
 and knew that he had been outmaneuvered for the 
 third time. The Thistle Down was gone. That was 
 no evidence. It had been announced that she would 
 sail on Monday morning with the tide. He had 
 recognized none of his assailants and, although the 
 whole thing was as clear as day, he had but one 
 witness to it all Grizel! 
 
 When it was discovered that he was fully conscious, 
 the coast-guard entered the room and touched his 
 [150]
 
 A Thorough Understanding 
 
 forehead in salute. He had been waiting outside with 
 Grizel for hours. For once he had seen the conflict 
 of orders and duty and had kept the girl waiting 
 until the lieutenant should have had the full benefit 
 of his drugged slumbers. 
 
 " Come aboard, sir ! " he said humbly. " I've 
 brought Miss Grizel, sir." 
 
 " Bring her in." 
 
 Grizel presently entered. Her face was pale and 
 drawn, and her eyes spoke of a sleepless night and 
 great mental pain. He could not bear to look at 
 her, and when Jack Cookson would have retired, he 
 called the old sailor back, for he feared the interview. 
 
 " Miss Grant," he said, " where were you last 
 night?" 
 
 " You know," she replied in a low tone. 
 
 " Did you see the smugglers? " 
 
 " You know I did." 
 
 " Could you point them out if you saw them 
 again ? " 
 
 " I could," she replied, after a moment, and with a 
 slight weight upon the " could." 
 
 " Did you warn them after I had mustered the 
 guard? " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Or cause them to be warned? " 
 
 She did not answer. He repeated the question. 
 Then she said: 
 
 [151]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " I may have done so, unconsciously." 
 
 " After you helped me to the door of the coast- 
 guard, you went away. Where did you go ? " 
 
 " Why must I answer these questions ? " she said, 
 with a sudden toss of her head. 
 
 " By your answering them you will save me the 
 pain of " 
 
 " I went aboard the Thistle Down to say good-by 
 to my father," she interrupted. 
 
 " Thank you. You see I do not suggest even 
 that you might have gone with the purpose of warn- 
 ing him." 
 
 " I did not go with that in mind, nor did I " 
 
 " That will do. I did not mean it as a question." 
 He suddenly held out to her a folded slip of paper. 
 " Did you write that? " he asked curiously. 
 
 She merely glanced at it. 
 
 " I wrote it," she said simply, her eyes dropping 
 to the floor. 
 
 ** At least one other person, besides yourself, knew 
 that you wrote this ? " he said, rather than asked. 
 
 She paused before answering. It was on the tip 
 of her tongue to correct him in his examination. He 
 had missed a point. Had she sent it him? But 
 she kept silence, fearing in her heart for her father, 
 rather than for Smuggle-erie. She replied to his 
 own question. 
 
 " That was apparent, surely." 
 [152]
 
 A Thorough Understanding 
 
 " Thank you," he said, dropping the paper on the 
 floor. " That will do now, I think." His eyes met 
 hers, full and honest, and he added : " We better un- 
 derstand each other now ! " 
 
 He turned his face to the wall with a sigh that 
 was almost a groan. Grizel walked out with her 
 hands clasped tightly before her, followed by the 
 coast-guard. 
 
 Outside she met the dominie, who looked at her 
 with a certain wistfulness in his kind eyes. Her 
 Kps quivered before his gaze, and in another moment 
 she was lying in his arms, sobbing like the little 
 girl whom the old dominie had so often dandled on 
 his knees. 
 
 [153]
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 GROGBLOSSOM'S DISCOVERY 
 
 THE Thistle Down hove to amid a creaking of 
 gear and washing of seas. Morag lay six miles 
 astern and the dim dawn was casting gray, chilly 
 shadows upon the surface of the Firth. A light 
 haze hung upon all, and before it lifted there was 
 much to be done. In the shadow of the schooner 
 lay a squat, slate-colored boat, piled with the con- 
 traband. Smuggle-erie swung himself aboard with 
 a nervous laugh, and cried in a tense manner: 
 
 " Now, lads, buckle to ! We've had our work 
 this night and we're not yet at the end o' the wood. 
 Bear a hand, m'lads ! Slings ready ! Heave-o and 
 quiet, m'lads ! " 
 
 The men worked like phantoms, swiftly and silently. 
 In threes the kegs came aboard and were stowed. 
 
 Heather Bloom stood looking on from a short 
 distance. It was not the sharp, commanding, quick- 
 deciding Heather Bloom of other days, but a sullen 
 gamester who had cast the dice and knew that neither 
 his hopes nor fears would alter the result. Only 
 once did he speak, and that as a larger keg a half- 
 [154]
 
 Grogblossomfs Discovery 
 
 puncheon, in fact came lumbering over the side 
 and fell with a sullen thud upon the deck. 
 
 "What's that?" he asked with a snarl. " Ye'd 
 think we were smuggling elephants to look at it. 
 Many a dog's been choked by that kind of greed. 
 To one side with it. You can't stow it now. Lively 
 below, there ! " 
 
 In fifteen minutes the squat craft alongside was 
 empty and the men clambered aboard, all except the 
 Red Mole and his surly son, Archibald. These two 
 began to push her off, but Grant stopped them. 
 
 " Open the cock of that boat ! " he commanded, 
 " and come aboard, you men." 
 
 The Red Mole and his son looked up in astonish- 
 ment. Over the gunwale they saw the dour, bearded 
 face of the sea-master. 
 
 " Open the cock ? " echoed the Red Mole, while 
 even Archibald gave a grunt of surprise. 
 
 " Open the cock, I say ! " Heather Bloom growled. 
 " The minute this haze lifts they'll spy her from 
 the coast-guard. Lively, now ! " 
 
 " But it's my boat an' worth sax pun', if it's worth 
 a bawbee ! " 
 
 Heather Bloom's answer was characteristic of his 
 frame of mind. He suddenly turned, lifted a keg 
 from the deck behind and hurled it downward into 
 the smuggler boat. The iron-ringed dead-weight 
 missed the Red Mole's head by an inch or two and 
 [155]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 crashed into the bottom of the craft with a force 
 that sprung her timbers. 
 
 " Now will ye obey me ! " Heather Bloom raved, 
 as the water began to bubble around the Red Mole's 
 feet. " Come aboard ! If ye'd done it at first," he 
 added, as the two men climbed over the side, " ye 
 might have got her back, water-logged." He whirled 
 around upon the man at the wheel. " Up wi' your 
 helm, Sandy ! Stand by, m'lads ! " 
 
 In a few minutes the Thistle Down was under way. 
 The wind was out of west-northwest and freshening. 
 Presently the haze was swept away and all at once 
 the sun rose over the hills at the headwaters of the 
 Firth, and mountain and sea were bathed in a cold, 
 clear light. 
 
 Heather Bloom stepped to a box behind the wheel 
 and took out a telescope, which he leveled first upon 
 Morag and then, with a sweep, upon the land on 
 either side of the Firth. There was nothing in sight 
 but a few fishing smacks on the sea, and on land 
 the world was just awaking, smoke beginning to curl 
 from the chimneys of the villages of Inverkip, Inellan, 
 and the farther town of Largs. A deep sigh burst 
 from Grant's breast, but nevertheless he hailed along 
 the deck : 
 
 " Crack on every rag, Smuggle-erie ! She'll stand 
 it as the wind holds ! Come a point, Sandy steady, 
 lad! Steady!" 
 
 [156]
 
 Grogblossom's Discovery 
 
 The schooner dirled away through the merry morn- 
 ing waters in the long reach for the Great Cumbrae 
 Island, abeam of which Heather Bloom brought her 
 before the wind and the Thistle Down raced like a 
 hound for the open channel. There was now little 
 fear of pursuit, or of danger ahead. 
 
 All through the day the schooner made good head- 
 way. Heather Bloom never left the deck until late 
 in the evening, when the breeze dropped rapidly. 
 Presently there was not a ripple on the Firth and 
 one could hear the wailing of the gulls on the ghostly 
 rock of Ailsa, some miles ahead. 
 
 Then Heather Bloom descended to the cuddy. He 
 sat down heavily by the table and bowed his 
 face over his clasped hands. Had any of the 
 crew seen him at that moment, they would have 
 been more than astonished. Heather Bloom was 
 praying ! 
 
 During the last twelve hours he had gone through 
 an experience which his worst enemies would not have 
 wished him to suffer. The conscience which makes 
 a coward had stung him sufficiently; but it was not 
 that. The suspense of the dash from Morag had 
 tried him to the utmost; but it was not that which 
 bowed him in misery now. Before his mind's eye, 
 there was the picture of Grizel, whom he had thought 
 asleep in the cottage with the flagstaff, appearing 
 in the ghostly gloom of the deck at the moment when 
 [157]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 his eyes and ears were straining for the signal 
 that Smuggle-erie and his men were safe and 
 away. 
 
 In the dim light of the first dawn, her appearance, 
 just as he turned to give the order to up anchor and 
 away, sent a shaft of supernatural fear through his 
 heart. What passed between them, it would be more 
 harrowing than just to record; but when the Thistle 
 Down weighed on the last dishonest voyage, it left 
 behind a lass whose heart was lightened by at least a 
 compromise, and the schooner carried away a man 
 who had suffered the deepest degradation of a father. 
 There was nothing now that she did not know; that 
 was the one consolation ; but what filled his heart with 
 black rage was all that he had not known, and which 
 she had told him. 
 
 The door of the cuddy swung open. Smuggle-erie 
 stepped in and slammed it cheerfully behind him. 
 
 "Pop goes the weasel!" he cried, and burst into 
 song: "With a hilly, hilly, holly " 
 
 Heather Bloom sprang to his feet with an oath 
 that was in strange contrast to his previous occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Stop that ! " he shouted. 
 
 Smuggle-erie's song abruptly ceased, and he stared 
 at the skipper with wide-open eyes. 
 
 " You call yourself a man? " sneered Grant. 
 
 Smuggle-erie turned pale with shock and blazing 
 [158]
 
 Grogblossom's Discovery 
 
 anger. He sprang forward and brought down the 
 flat of his hand on the table with a decisive smack. 
 
 " What d'ye mean ? Take that back quick, 
 or " 
 
 The two men faced each other the lion and the 
 tiger. Grant was the first to speak. 
 
 " You would trade my daughter to trap a man, 
 would you? " 
 
 His words the tone of his voice would admit 
 of but one charge and one answer. 
 
 Smuggle-erie had no answer. 
 
 He knew that he was guilty. The whole signif- 
 icance of his conduct flashed through his mind. The 
 uneasiness which had haunted him while he contem- 
 plated the act; the vague fear which had been with 
 him ever since he had accomplished it and had heard 
 Grizel's cry ring out by the castle gate, as they 
 hurried away with the inanimate form of Ben Larkin 
 all revealed its full meaning to him now. His 
 tiger-like glare softened to shame, and quailed before 
 the big sea-master's eyes. He drew back from the 
 table and with his eyes on the floor, his hands hanging 
 limp at his sides and his body drooping on one foot, 
 he said after a long silence: 
 
 " I'm sorry, sir. I never thought of it that 
 way." 
 
 " And you would marry my lass, and be a husband 
 to her after that ! " The infinite scorn of the 
 [159]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 skipper's tone must have stung the other like a lash. 
 But he did not betray it. 
 
 " No," said Smuggle-erie, looking up slowly, " I 
 don't think so." His face twitched and all at once 
 a strange glistening, like that which heralds a tear, 
 shone in his eyes. He suddenly burst out in an 
 anguish of passion and protest. " I know I'm not fit 
 for the lass. I say it to you and, by God ! I'm man 
 enough to say it to her. But what d'ye expect? 
 I Teen nothing. I am nothing. A charity lad that 
 even took the pity of a miserable old Scrymegeour! 
 Nobody ever taught me anything, but you, and I 
 know nothing but how to cheat the customs, defy 
 the law, and fear neither God, king, man, nor devil. 
 Is it my fault? I'm not a man, by your way of 
 thinking. Tell me, Heather Bloom, as a man to 
 the lad you saved from drowning like mongrel spawn 
 is it my fault ? is it my fault ? " 
 
 " I thought better of you" was Grant's reply, 
 for the thrust had gone straight home and the accuser 
 had weakened. His charge had rebounded upon 
 himself. 
 
 Smuggle-erie turned away and looked at the par- 
 tition. He waited for Grant to say more, but that 
 was all he was to hear in that strain. Presently the 
 big sea-master's hand fell upon the younger man's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " I forgive you, lad, as I hope to be forgiven 
 [160]
 
 Grogblossom's Discovery 
 
 myself," said Grant. " It has been a lesson to me, 
 as I hope it may be an example to you. Pray God 
 that both of us win through this time and see an end 
 of the cursed business. Maybe the lass might forgive 
 you, too ! " 
 
 " Not her ! " cried Smuggle-erie. " She's head 
 ower heels in love wi' yon admiral. He's the better 
 man o' the two ! " he added savagely. 
 
 " In a way, maybe," Grant qualified. " He's in 
 a better business, but," with a bit of a relieved laugh, 
 " we'll remedy that, lad. Come ! " And he rapped 
 his knuckles on the table in cheery fashion. " We'll 
 remedy everything, Smuggle-erie. We'll begin again. 
 I've promised the lass." 
 
 " Ye what ? " gasped Smuggle-erie. " She 
 kens? " 
 
 " Aye," said Grant, averting his eyes. " She kens. 
 She owerheard us Scrymegeour and me. The 
 lieutenant kens, too. There's the whole hang 
 o't." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " said Smuggle-erie, scarcely 
 above a whisper. He hummed a few bars of " Pease 
 Brose Again, Mither," then broke off and said : " I 
 wish I'd known that. Now we're all in the pickle. 
 If he can prove you Heather Bloom, he can prove 
 everything by rule o' thumb, almost." 
 
 " I didn't say he could prove it," said Grant des- 
 perately. " As far as I can see, Grizel's his one 
 [161]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 witness of what he overheard. He'll make nothing 
 o' her, if it comes to that." 
 
 Smuggle-erie whistled again, sitting on the table 
 with his thumbs stuck in his belt and his legs 
 dangling. 
 
 " Is that all he knows ? " he interpolated. 
 
 " Yes, but it's enough when you consider that 
 he was seemingly inveigled to a certain spot by 
 Heather Bloom's lass and there knocked over the 
 head. And when he came to, the Thistle Down was 
 gone. Ye'll admit that there's smugglers in Morag." 
 
 " That's just the point in our favor," said 
 Smuggle-erie quickly. " We'll admit that there's 
 smugglers in Morag and that the man they would 
 be likely to get rid of would be this same lieutenant, 
 and in very much the way that you're describing. 
 What's that got to do with the Thistle Down and 
 Captain John Grant, bound for Bristol with an honest 
 cargo of general merchandise and ballast? See what 
 I mean ? " concluded Smuggle-erie, raising a pair 
 of mischievous, blue-gray eyes to the captain's face. 
 
 " But Grizel Grizel ? " said Heather Bloom im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " Safe as the kirk," said Smuggle-erie. " Aside 
 from the fact that she'd never say a word agin her 
 father, even if the court asked her to, yon man, Ben 
 Larkin, is no curmudgeon like Old Scryme. I'll 
 wager two pounds of tobacco to a half-mutchkin 
 [162]
 
 Grogblossom's Discovery 
 
 of whisky that he's biting his nails at this very 
 minute, and wondering what to do with the girl now 
 that he's got her." 
 
 " Got her ? " echoed Grant, turning pale and 
 agitated. 
 
 " Well, ye ken what I would mean," Smuggle-erie 
 said uneasily. " I never gave it a thought, but I 
 see now. He'd send for her and ask her, and " 
 
 There was a silence. Each was picturing the 
 scene of the poor girl under the rack of inquisition, 
 divided between her loyalty, her love, and her strict 
 truthfulness. 
 
 " One thing," said Smuggle-erie dubiously, " Lar- 
 kin's a man. If it had been Horneycraft, now, I'd 
 ha' been for putting right back into Morag." 
 
 Again there was thought-laden silence. Grant 
 was suffering the pangs of remorse in full fury once 
 more. To his first agony was added the thought that 
 Grizel was bearing the brunt of everything ashore. 
 
 Smuggle-erie was having his share of wretchedness 
 too, although his more self-interested mind concerned 
 itself a little with wondering why Horneycraft had 
 sprung no surprise throughout the whole business. 
 He had been quite sure that the long-nosed collector 
 would put in an appearance before the Thistle Down 
 sailed. But, no ! Not a sign of him. The schooner 
 had taken aboard her honest cargo of merchandise 
 day after day, without a single visit from the hawk- 
 [163]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 like Mr. Horneycraft. It mattered nothing to 
 Smuggle-erie now, but he could not help wondering. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Mr. Horneycraft, as if by 
 an instinct that outlived the man himself, was at 
 the bottom of the trap which presently yawned around 
 the smugglers. That night the schooner made slow 
 but steady headway down the channel and the tension 
 aboard was relieved. Grant, however, fidgeted about 
 the vessel all night, his heart torn between eagerness 
 to get forward, and done with it all, and a longing 
 to about ship and sail back to Grizel's aid. 
 
 When morning came the breeze sharpened, and the 
 bright sunlight raised the man's spirits. Together 
 Smuggle-erie and Heather Bloom went to the cuddy 
 to a breakfast of porridge, tea, and bacon. Grog- 
 blossom was cabin-boy, as well as cook, and kept 
 traveling from the galley to the cuddy and back as 
 fast as he could waddle, with the various dishes. 
 
 It was while he was absent from the cabin, when 
 breakfast was all served, that Heather Bloom and 
 Smuggle-erie were startled by a sudden horrible 
 yell which echoed through the ship. The yell was 
 followed by a shuffling of heavy feet, and presently 
 Grogblossom rushed, or rather rolled, down the com- 
 panion. His face was livid with horror, and he was 
 holding his hands over his fat paunch, while he 
 groaned and cried: 
 
 " Oh ! O-o-o-h ! Oh ! Oh ! I'm dead ! I'm 
 [164]
 
 Grogblossom 3 s Discovery 
 
 pizened! And I've got sich a horror o' the deid! 
 Guid f orgie me ! I seen it ! I seen it ! " 
 
 Heather Bloom jumped to his feet, grappled with 
 the fat cook, and threw him to the floor. The big 
 sea-master fully believed that Grogblossom had de- 
 veloped a form of delirium which had often been 
 prophesied for him. Grogblossom, for all his solem- 
 nity and sanctity, was quite a tippler in his quiet 
 way. He never drank much, but he was forever 
 taking a nip, so that if he had fallen into the slough 
 of drunkenness all at once none would have been sur- 
 prised. His habit of tasting a common trick with 
 cooks had often led him into curious scrapes, but 
 none excelled his present experience, not even that 
 when he tasted some poison for rats which the skipper 
 had brought aboard. 
 
 It was some time before Heather Bloom and 
 Smuggle-erie realized that the man was quite sane, 
 although dreadfully frightened. Then he told his 
 story, still with his hands upon his stomach, and 
 stopping every word or two to utter a groan. 
 
 It appeared that, feeling tired after his morning's 
 work, and running up and down those stairs " and 
 he had a weak heart " he thought maybe he would 
 feel better if he had a little nip of spirits, brandy 
 or something of that kind. He had none himself, 
 nor had any of the crew. He would have waited until 
 after the breakfast was cleared away, to ask the 
 [165]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 captain, but, as he explained to Heather Bloom, whose 
 eyes suddenly began to twinkle, he was feeling so ill 
 that he doubted if he would have the strength to get 
 as far as the cuddy. His heart, etc. 
 
 There was one of the barrels which had been swung 
 aboard the schooner from the Red Mole's boat. It 
 was bigger than the others a half-puncheon, in fact 
 and it had not been stowed. Meaning to explain 
 to the captain later, Grogblossom said, he took the 
 liberty of broaching the barrel. When he tried to 
 fill a can with what he supposed was whisky, the 
 barrel yielded only about half a pint, then the flow 
 stopped short. Grogblossom was puzzled, but, as 
 he explained quaintly to Heather Bloom, the quantity 
 that he was able to draw from the barrel was enough 
 for all immediate intents and purposes. 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir ! " he groaned. " It was for my 
 heart. Had it since I was a lad. Done everything 
 for't. And so I tasted the stuff. Losh, man ! Guess 
 what it was. It was brine salt, herrin' brine. An' 
 
 it had a taste that Oh ! O-o-o-oh ! " groaned 
 
 Grogblossom, rolling over on his side and writhing 
 in an agony of horror. " I canna tell ye. I canna 
 put a name to't. I pulled out the spigot and oh, 
 cap'n, gang an' see for yersel'. Gang an' see for 
 yersel' ! " 
 
 Heather Bloom turned and found Smuggle-erie's 
 startled eyes full upon him. Together they read the 
 [166]
 
 Grogblossom's Discovery 
 
 thought in each other's mind. They turned and 
 dashed from the cuddy, leaving Grogblossom alone 
 with his misery. 
 
 Along the deck they ran to the spot where the 
 half-puncheon stood, abaft the cook's galley. One 
 glance at the little round hole where Grogblossom 
 had been operating was enough. Through it pro- 
 truded the finger of a man, the rest of whose body 
 was inside the barrel. 
 
 [167]
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 STAND BY TO GO ABOUT 
 
 HEATHER BLOOM and Smuggle-erie were too hor- 
 ror-stricken to do anything for a while but look at 
 the finger, which protruded from the barrel with a 
 kind of devilish accusation. But the brains of both 
 men were working rapidly. In a flash of intuition 
 each knew the name of the murdered man ; made a 
 shrewd guess at his murderers ; saw the trick which 
 had been played upon them, and realized the terrible 
 consequences that were likely to ensue. 
 
 Yet it was no time to stand there and glare. The 
 crew, alarmed by Grogblossom's behavior, were crowd- 
 ing around the barrel. Heather Bloom's eyes sud- 
 denly shot into their midst and, in a terrible, rasping 
 voice, he said: 
 
 "All hands on deck! Where's the Red Mole? 
 Tomlinson, go forrard and bring aft that red-headed 
 fiend. Saunders, you go bear a hand ; and you, too, 
 Black! Bring the young whelp, too. Never mind. 
 He's here." 
 
 Out of the corner of his eye, Heather Bloom had 
 seen the surly Archibald leaning against the main- 
 [168]
 
 Stand by to Go About 
 
 mast, regarding the proceedings with a cold, unin- 
 terested gaze. 
 
 He came forward at the captain's command, and 
 stood up before him, with his long arms dangling 
 listlessly at his side. Not even when the three sailors 
 came back with the Red Mole, whose hair was 
 stiff with fury and fright, did the son move an 
 eyelash. 
 
 Heather Bloom asked no questions, but, in a voice 
 shaking with dark emotions, he ordered the carpenter, 
 Black, to bring an ax. 
 
 " Open that barrel ! " he commanded. 
 
 The schooner's crew stood around in a tense, cran- 
 ing circle, as the ax crashed upon the barrel-head. 
 Once ! twice ! thrice ! 
 
 The barrel-head splintered and cracked. The sea- 
 wind hummed in the rigging, and the ocean crowded 
 and danced around, as if eager to hear this new tale 
 of the sea and bury it in its bosom. 
 
 A fourth time the ax descended, and with the 
 handle of the weapon the carpenter levered out the 
 broken bits of the head. Silently the men had crept 
 a step forward, all except the Red Mole and his son, 
 and every eye, fearing to look, looked. 
 
 At first sight it was nothing but a white mass 
 
 coarse salt; but as they stared the fog cleared from 
 
 their gaze, and the thing took shape. All that was 
 
 to be seen of it was the thin-haired head, wet with 
 
 [169]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 half-dissolved salt, but the face was the face of 
 Horneycraf t ! 
 
 A groan burst from every breast. They were 
 engaged in a nefarious trade, but, as such things 
 went, the smugglers of the Thistle Down were not 
 bad men. And this thing was beyond human bear- 
 ing. Heather Bloom was the first to recover. He 
 turned a pair of great, blazing orbs upon the Red 
 Mole, who suddenly dropped on his knees and wailed : 
 
 " I never did ! I never did ! It's Scrymegeour's 
 work, I tell ye Scrymegeour's work ! " 
 
 The big sea-master's arm flew out, and the Red 
 Mole dropped to the deck, felled like an ox. As the 
 man lay there, bleeding and unconscious, Heather 
 Bloom raised his hand to the blue heavens and stag- 
 gered away, crying to Heaven for mercy! mercy! 
 mercy ! 
 
 As his back was turned, the stoic Archibald sud- 
 denly awoke with a scream and whipped out a dirk. 
 Out went one of Smuggle-erie's legs, and the Red 
 Mole's son plunged headlong upon his face on the 
 white planks. 
 
 In another moment half the crew was on top of 
 him, beating him into insensibility. Smugqfle-erie 
 drew off and cast a glance about him. The schooner 
 had come in the wind's eye, and the helmsman had 
 abandoned the wheel, which was spinning idly in 
 accord with the flapping, fluttering sails. 
 [170]
 
 Stand by to Go About 
 
 The schooner's master and crew were demoralized. 
 The young smuggler saw the breach into which he 
 must step. He flung himself upon the mass which 
 was struggling over Archibald, and beat the men 
 with his fists, the while he shouted to them by name, 
 commanding them to cease. Presently the mass 
 broke, and the men stood up before Smuggle-erie. 
 Archibald remained motionless upon the deck. 
 
 Smuggle-erie glared at the crew for a moment; 
 then, rushing upon the man, Tomlinson, he drove 
 him back to the wheel. In a few minutes he held 
 the deck under control, and the men, their terrors 
 renewed, as they calmly reviewed what had happened, 
 were ready to obey an order that might save 
 them. 
 
 " I'm going below for a minute," said Smuggle- 
 erie sternly. " If I hear a pin drop while I'm there, 
 I'll come up and stave in some more heads. Here, 
 you Black. As you're so lively wi' the ax, cooper 
 up that barrel the way you found it. Leave these 
 things," he added, indicating the Red Mole and his 
 son. With that Smuggle-erie marched to the com- 
 panion. 
 
 The minute he was out of sight of the crew his 
 nerve deserted him completely, and he dashed into the 
 cuddy with a face the color of dirty snow. 
 
 Heather Bloom was sitting on the settle, leaning 
 heavily upon one arm. The other was flung wide and 
 [171]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 aimlessly across the table, with the fist shut so tight 
 that the knuckles gleamed white through the brown 
 hair of it. His jaw was fallen, and he was for all 
 the world like a man in a cataleptic trance. 
 
 Smuggle-erie was muttering wildly and unintel- 
 ligibly. The big sea-master awoke with a start, and, 
 at the same time, he found his tongue in a burst of 
 fury, which sounded like the raving of a wounded 
 lion. He cursed until his breath gave out and his 
 face turned purple; then he broke out in a hoarse 
 peal of laughter, which ended in a wailing appeal for 
 mercy. 
 
 Smuggle-erie watched him, at first in astonishment, 
 then in fear that the skipper's mind had become 
 overturned. Finally he went up to him, struck the 
 giant in the chest, and ripped out: 
 
 " So you call yourself a man ! " 
 
 The echo of another scene, it struck Grant in a 
 peculiar manner. He stopped short, stared at 
 Smuggle-erie, then sank down by the table with his 
 head in his hands. To Smuggle-erie's ears came his 
 voice, muffled and hoarse: 
 
 " Murder ! Murder on my ship ! She told me ! 
 She told me it would come to that ! Poor little lass ! 
 
 If it wasna for Grizel " He suddenly looked 
 
 up, dashed his hand across his eyes, and the steel 
 trap shut upon his face. 
 
 " What's to be done? " he snapped. 
 [172]
 
 Stand by to Go About 
 
 " It's mostly done already," said Smuggle-erie 
 coolly. " If you can find anything else to do, you've 
 more brains than me." 
 
 " Let's take this from the beginning," said Grant, 
 becoming strangely calm. " Horneycraft is found 
 daad on my ship in a barrel of coarse salt. That 
 barrel of coarse salt came from Cothouse, where 
 Horneycraft had been prowling about looking for 
 evidence. The Red Mole owns that place, and is 
 responsible for every barrel of contraband aboard 
 he and Scrymegeour. He Smuggle-erie ! " he cried, 
 breaking off short. " You remember in the cave, 
 Saturday night, how this man Red Mole blurted out 
 that Horneycraft was ' dead,' then swore he had never 
 seen him, and how Scrymegeour said Archibald would 
 take care of Horneycraft. Oh, why talk! They 
 killed him, put him in a barrel, and shipped it along 
 with the kegs. In fine, they knew that if we landed 
 that barrel without discovering its contents, and 
 somebody else found the body, it would be traced 
 back to us, and it would go hard and certain with 
 a poor devil of a smuggler because it happened to 
 be a revenue officer who was killed. Oh, the arch- 
 fiend!" 
 
 Smuggle-erie began to whistle. 
 
 " Why land the barrel at all? " he said after a bit. 
 " It's customary, isn't it, to give a man decent burial 
 at sea, even if he happens to be a revenue officer? " 
 [173]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " That's the dirty work he'd like to have us do ! " 
 groaned Heather Bloom. 
 
 " It's to save our necks," was the very practical 
 retort. " We might 'bout ship and sail into Morag, 
 but who's to take the word of Heather Bloom against 
 Old Scryme's, in the matter of a revenue collector 
 murdered and found dead in a barrel aboard that 
 same Heather Bloom's ship? " 
 
 " Anything, lad ! " groaned the sea-master. " I 
 can't think I can't think ! My brain's afire and 
 tumbling like the sea. You do it do the best for me, 
 lad ! " And the big skipper flung out his hands in 
 a helpless appeal to his young mate. 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir ! " said Smuggle-erie respectfully. 
 " Then bury it is. I'll make the arrangements and 
 call you, sir. Ye might read a bit prayer afore 
 we tilt the thing into the sea. A thing like that'll 
 go well with a jury of land-lubbers. For the rest, 
 skipper, don't take on hard about it. You'll have 
 the whip hand of Giles Scryme for all time, even if 
 you do have to explain in the end why you kept your 
 mouth shut so long." 
 
 " It's not that, lad," said Heather Bloom ; " it's 
 the hard luck o' it. The last trip. Think o' it! 
 The last trip ! I know now that I could have been 
 happy again; but, after this no! never! It'll 
 haunt me haunt me, I tell you! " And the broken 
 man's voice arose in an agonized crescendo. 
 [174]
 
 Smuggle-erie went back lo the deck. The carpen- 
 ter, Black, had finished coopering up the barrel, 
 and stood by the grewsome thing, ax in hand, like a 
 headsman by the block upon which they were all 
 to be executed. Tomlinson, with blood streaming 
 from a cut over his left eye, stood sullenly by the 
 wheel. The Red Mole still lay where he had fallen, 
 but his son had partly recovered consciousness and 
 had crawled into the scupper, where he lay muttering 
 to himself. 
 
 Smuggle-erie passed Archibald and knelt down by 
 the Red Mole's side. After a few minutes' examina- 
 tion, he rose with a chuckle. 
 
 " Not dead ! " he said aloud. " Here, Saunders 
 and Alec, carry him below and tie him up. You 
 can do the same with the dummy one, there. We 
 may need them before we're out of this wood. You, 
 Black, rig up some sort of funeral. We're going 
 to roll the collector overboard." 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir ! " said Black, who forthwith set 
 to work. 
 
 In about half an hour all was ready, and the 
 barrel-coffin of the late Mr. Horn eye raft stood ready 
 by the gangway. Each of the sailors had put on 
 his shore-going togs, and many of them came into 
 the solemn ring with their Bible in hand. Heads 
 bowed, they stood in a semicircle and awaited the 
 Arrival of the master. The carpenter stationed 
 [175]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 himself by the barrel, ready to knock away the 
 wedges and to let the queer coffin roll into the 
 sea. 
 
 When all was ready, Smuggle-erie went to notify 
 Heather Bloom. The big sea-master was sitting just 
 where he had left him, but at Smuggle-erie's word 
 he rose and took a Bible from a locker under the 
 settle. Then he slowly ascended the companion and 
 walked toward the solemn semicircle. Several of the 
 men looked up and nudged one another as he ap- 
 proached, for the captain was a strangely altered 
 man. He seemed to have aged ten years in as many 
 hours ; but the events of the last hour had driven 
 all the luster from his skin, and the gray of his hair 
 showed almost white around the temples. He walked, 
 too, with an unsteady gait, and his eyes gazed 
 straight and stupidly before him. In silence he 
 took his place beside the barrel. He began to rustle 
 the leaves of the Bible and turn them idly. Smuggle- 
 erie looked over his shoulder, with the intention of 
 offering a suggestion, perhaps. He noticed that the 
 captain's Bible was upside down. He was about to 
 speak when Heather Bloom's voice dull and distant 
 began the prayer: 
 
 " Our Father which art in Heaven " 
 
 He stopped. The men looked up at him and 
 shuffled uneasily. Heather Bloom's eyes were fixed 
 upon the far seas, and he was swaying. 
 [176]
 
 Stand by to Go About 
 
 " Our Father " He stopped again. Smug- 
 
 gle-erie stepped to his side. The captain was 
 swallowing hard, and his eyelids were flickering 
 rapidly. 
 
 " Our Father " Then, all at once, the big 
 
 sea-master tottered, and he fell back into the arms 
 of his men. Smuggle-erie gave one glance at his 
 face. It was dark in hue, and the veins were stand- 
 ing out like cords. 
 
 " Bear a hand, lads ! " he cried. " The devil's 
 on this ship ! " 
 
 They carried the skipper below, and several of 
 the sailors set to work to loosen his clothes and get 
 him into his bunk. Smuggle-erie stood by and help- 
 lessly looked on. Presently, as the captain's writh- 
 ings awoke a similar commotion in his own heart, 
 he rushed to the deck with his fists clenched 
 and face working in fury. The carpenter was 
 knocking the wedges from under the barrel, after 
 a discussion with those who had remained on 
 deck. 
 
 " Avast there ! " Smuggle-erie roared. " Back 
 with that barrel! We'll save it to save ourselves. 
 Stand by to go about! " 
 
 He leaped to the wheel and jammed it down. The 
 men sprang to their posts, too dazed to notice any- 
 thing strange about the command ; and as the Thistle 
 Down swung around and filled away on a literal home- 
 [177]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 tack, Smuggle-erie, his eyes ablaze with the joy of 
 battle, shook his fist at the north. 
 
 " You, too, old shrimp ! " he cried. " Stand by to 
 go about ! " 
 
 [178]
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE MADNESS OF BEN LARKIN 
 
 IT was twenty-four hours after the Thistle Down 
 sailed before Lieutenant Ben Larkin was able to 
 go about his business. Indeed, if the dominie had 
 been asked about the matter, he would have said 
 that on the Tuesday morning when Ben left the 
 coast-guard station, the man was not fit to be out 
 of bed. But Ben did not ask the dominie's opinion. 
 " He took French leave, by thunder ! " as Cookson 
 said. 
 
 After Grizel left on Monday afternoon, and all 
 that night, Larkin lay writhing under the sting of 
 defeat. Defeat it was, undoubtedly. What did it 
 matter that he knew who Heather Bloom was, and 
 that Giles Scrymegeour was the mainspring of the 
 smugglers, and that practically the entire male popu- 
 lation of Morag was privy to the contraband tribe? 
 He could prove none of it, except by Grizel, if Grizel 
 would speak. Something in him revolted against 
 employing her against anyone, when the evidence 
 which she could give had been got while she lay in 
 [179]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 the arms of the man who was swearing by all the 
 gods to love, honor, and protect her. 
 
 There was only one thing for Ben Larkin to do 
 get out and snare the game for himself, and in some 
 other way. He could not do it as long as he lay 
 in bed, but he had a clew which was legitimately his, 
 and which he could act upon without a clash between 
 love and duty. 
 
 That clew was throbbing in the back of his skull 
 when he left the coast-guard station and walked 
 away toward the castle gate. What Grizel had to 
 do with that assault he did not know, and did not 
 care to think. In fact, he had decided not to think 
 any more about Grizel any more than he could help. 
 He would forget that she existed; at least, he would 
 try to forget that she had anything to do with the 
 smugglers, and even that she was Heather Bloom's 
 daughter. 
 
 He would arrest Heather Bloom, regardless 
 of his daughter; he would jail Smuggle-erie, in 
 spite of the ethics of rivalry; he would turn Mo- 
 rag inside out and upside down, for all his love 
 mattered ! 
 
 From which train of thinking it may be suspected 
 that Ben Larkin's brain was in a peculiarly excited 
 condition. And no wonder. He was the hero of 
 this business, but, unfortunately for him, he was a 
 hero of human mold, and was not used to knocks on 
 [180]
 
 The Madness of Ben Larkin 
 
 the head and drowning, as a regular thing. Between 
 his escape from the sea and his latest adventure, he 
 was in an ill condition. And it was that very fever- 
 ishness of intellect which sent him, like a drink-fired 
 idiot, upon his present mission. 
 
 He first went to the castle gate, where he had been 
 knocked on the head. Here he had once been mirac- 
 ulously saved by Smuggle-erie. Here, also, by the 
 Bull Rock, the smuggler's boat had vanished a little 
 over a week before; and here, finally, he had once 
 heard the mystic signal of " Pease Brose Again, 
 Mither ! " Here was the place to begin his inde- 
 pendent investigation. 
 
 He went straight into the gardener's lodge and 
 began a search. His fevered brain was strangely 
 acute and imaginative. If this was a haunted place, 
 the ghosts, he reflected, wore hob-nailed boots, the 
 impressions of which he could see everywhere on the 
 muddy, rotten floor. In a few minutes he found 
 the trap-door and, with an exulting heart, descended 
 the ladder. A cave! Exactly! And the low tide 
 revealed a bit of sunlight at the other end. 
 
 So this was how he had been saved? He looked 
 around the cave. There was not a scrap of anything 
 to signify that smugglers had ever been there; but 
 the hob-nailed imprints upstairs, the ladder, the 
 outlet into the Bull Rock passage, all combined to 
 satisfy him. He returned to the lodge and paused 
 [181]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 by the door. He filled his pipe and lighted it, while 
 he carefully eyed the ground outside. 
 
 " They took no pains to hide anything," he mused, 
 gazing interestedly upon deep wheel-marks and hoof- 
 prints, which told how the vehicle had lingered for 
 some time at this door. " That's the trouble about 
 this business," he reflected ; " you must catch them 
 with the contraband in their possession. How- 
 ever " 
 
 Puffing his pipe amiably, he started off on the 
 trail of the cart-tracks. They led, not into the 
 public highway, but through the grounds of the 
 castle. Larkin reflected that this was an odd cir- 
 cumstance, but it became more interesting than odd 
 when the tracks skirted the old castle and came out 
 on the mountain highway at a near gate. 
 
 " A short cut," said Larkin to himself. " Some- 
 body in the castle in the game, too. I shouldn't be 
 at all surprised if the laird himself is in it." 
 
 Although more than twenty-four hours had passed 
 since that cart came down the hill road, the tracks 
 were almost undisturbed, so rare was traffic ; and 
 there had been no rain. Larkin could easily trace 
 them, besides, by the fact that one of the wheels 
 had sunk deeper in the mud than the other showing 
 that the cart had been badly trimmed. The second 
 wheel had a distinguishing characteristic, also. It 
 had been patched on the iron circumference, and 
 [182]
 
 The Madness of Ben Larkin 
 
 had left its stamp on the road every five or six 
 yards. 
 
 Smiling at the simplicity of it all, Larkin walked 
 on, puffing away at his pipe, until he came to Cot- 
 house. Mrs. Currie was scrubbing the floor of the 
 bar, the air of which was heavy with the odor of 
 stale tobacco, bad whisky, and vinegar. 
 
 " Tell me," said Larkin in friendly fashion, " how 
 many kegs went down on Sunday night in the 
 cart?" 
 
 Mrs. Currie struggled to her feet, the exertion 
 causing her fat face to turn red and damp, while 
 her breath came in asthmatic, vinegary wheezes. 
 
 " Coward ! " she gasped indignantly. " To come 
 here with your insultin' questions to a lone, defense- 
 less woman ! " 
 
 " Your pardon, madam," said Larkin, completely 
 taken aback, but highly amused, nevertheless. " I 
 wouldn't insult you for the world." 
 
 " Ye'd better not ! " said Mrs. Baldy Currie, re- 
 gaining her breath and her barmaid manners. " I'd 
 claw every hair out of your head ! " 
 
 " I quite believe it," said Larkin. " On second 
 thought, I'll be more discreet than valorous, madam, 
 and retire." 
 
 So saying, he removed his hat politely and de- 
 parted, leaving Mrs. Baldy Currie completely 
 stupefied. 
 
 [183]
 
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " He's daft ! " was her final and complete estimate 
 of Lieutenant Ben Larkin. 
 
 Larkin was not daft, by any means, but his head 
 was whirling as if he had been drinking. The fever 
 of his wound grew worse under his excitement, and 
 he walked back to Morag, a thousand possibilities 
 racing through his brain. As he was passing the 
 rear gate of the castle grounds, it occurred to him 
 that it would be amusing to call upon the laird and 
 ask him about the carts. 
 
 The laird received him quite graciously. Richard 
 Halliday was a big, stout man, with the approved 
 bearing of a country squire. He could rip out a 
 " By George ! Egad, sir " and a " Country's going 
 to the devil, sir ! " like one to the manner born, 
 which, it is to be presumed, he was. He also had 
 gout, and a way of puffing out his cheeks when he 
 was listening to anyone. 
 
 " I merely wished to ask you a few questions," said 
 Larkin. 
 
 " Questions ? Questions ? " sputtered the laird. 
 " Certainly, sir ! With the greatest of pleasure, sir ! 
 An honor, I assure you ! " 
 
 " You are aware, I presume, that the amount of 
 smuggling which has been going on around here of 
 late has " 
 
 " Around here? Around where? Smuggling? 
 Why, yes, of course! An outrage, sir a damned 
 [184]
 
 The Madness of Ben Larkin 
 
 outrage! A sign of the times we live in, and this 
 confounded Toryism! Smugglers, you were say- 
 ing? " 
 
 " Smuggling yes," said Larkin with a silly laugh. 
 " I said smuggling. The smugglers, you know " 
 and the laird looked astonished as Larkin gave him a 
 friendly poke in the ribs " the smugglers, I was 
 saying, actually drove a cart-load of contraband 
 whisky under the castle windows on Sunday night." 
 
 The laird staggered back a couple of paces. Lar- 
 kin could not help noticing the blank astonishment on 
 his face. 
 
 " What did you say? " he stammered, all his gruff 
 heartiness vanishing. But it returned in a sudden 
 way that made Ben suspect half of it was assumed. 
 " Passed under the castle windows under my win- 
 dows, sir? An outrage, sir a cursed outrage! In- 
 credible. I cannot, I will not, believe such an as- 
 sertion, sir. Under my windows? Why, good 
 gracious, man ! Have a glass of port ? No ? Oh, 
 come, come! Oh, very well. I will not press you. 
 A rule of mine. You were saying " 
 
 " Saying? " echoed Larkin stupidly. " Oh, yes. 
 The smugglers, you know." 
 
 " Hang me, sir ! " cried the laird. " I wish you 
 wouldn't laugh like that." 
 
 " Does my laugh annoy you? " asked Larkin quiz- 
 zically. 
 
 [185]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Yes, sir ! No, sir ! What the devil am I say- 
 ing, anyway? You were saying " 
 
 " I was," said Ben. 
 
 At this peculiar rejoinder the laird collapsed al- 
 together, and faced Larkin. The lieutenant, half- 
 crazed with fever as he was, realized that it was time 
 he said something to obviate his being escorted to the 
 door. 
 
 " I was speaking of the cart-load of contraband 
 from Cothouse," said Larkin. 
 
 " Eh ! " cried the laird, startled. 
 
 " And which," continued Larkin steadily, " having 
 passed under the castle windows, one might say, and 
 having been smuggled through a gardener's lodge on 
 this estate, would naturally arouse the suspicion that 
 someone in this castle was an accomplice of the 
 smugglers." 
 
 "Eh?" gasped the laird. "Great Heavens!" 
 And the exclamation was no squirely bluster, but a 
 genuine explosion of fear, or astonishment. By a 
 mighty effort, the man managed to regain his portly 
 role, and blurted out : " What the devil d'ye mean, 
 sir? How dare you, sir, poke me in the ribs ! What 
 d'ye take me for a fishmonger ? " 
 
 " You misunderstand me, sir," said Larkin quietly. 
 " It is quite possible that one of your servants, un- 
 known to you " 
 
 " Ah ! " cried the laird, his face clearing. " That's 
 [186]
 
 The Madness of Ben Larkin 
 
 more like it That's more like it. Pardon my 
 temper. As a child I was hasty. Positively an 
 affliction, sir an affliction! Have a glass of 
 port?" 
 
 " No, thank you, sir," said Larkin. " I must be 
 going. But keep your eyes open, laird. Keep your 
 eyes open." 
 
 " I will, sir I will," said the laird, a little dubious 
 of Larkin's meaning. " I appreciate your kindness, 
 sir. Smugglery? Huh! Let me lay hands on the 
 rascals, sir, and I'll have them put in the stocks, sir 
 put in the stocks, as they used to do. Old-fashioned 
 ways are the best, sir old-fashioned ways, I tell ye. 
 But there it's the times we live in ! " 
 
 And in this way the laird conducted Larkin to the 
 front door. As he walked off, the laird saw the 
 lieutenant's shoulders quaking, and was seized with a 
 sudden dread. He rushed to his study, rang a bell 
 furiously, and, when the butler appeared, said: 
 
 " Dress yourself, James. At once ! You must 
 take a letter at once ! " 
 
 Larkin, in the meantime, was proceeding on his 
 career of temporary madness, chuckling to himself. 
 
 " The laird, too ! Ha, ha ! The laird, too ! " 
 
 Passing the cottage with the flagstaff, he nearly 
 ran into Grizel. 
 
 " Aha ! " he cried pleasantly. " Miss Grizel. The 
 top of the morning to you afternoon evening, I 
 [187]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 mean. One hardly notices the flight of time, as I was 
 just saying to the laird." 
 
 She stopped, looked at him, and gave a start. 
 She firmly believed for a moment that he was under 
 the influence of liquor. Then she saw that he was 
 ill, and a great wave of maternal pity crossed her 
 face. 
 
 " Oh, you should not be out ! " she said. " Go 
 home, will you, please? Go home, and I will get the 
 dominie to come and see you." 
 
 " No, madam," said he, with exaggerated polite- 
 ness. " Even the pleasure of your loving kindness I 
 must forego. You cannot tell how much it will 
 grieve me to arrest your father and the young man ; 
 but my duty, madam, my duty ! " 
 
 And, with his head erect, he marched away, after 
 a dignified salute, leaving the girl in tears. Passing 
 Giles's shop, the imp of mischief again seized him, 
 and he marched inside. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Criminis ! " cried Larkin. 
 " I mean to say Mr. Scrymegeour. I was thinking 
 of particeps criminis, although, after all, the name 
 might apply does apply, come to think of it. 
 Good ! " And the fever-crazed man laughed lightly. 
 " Particeps Criminis, Esquire. Not bad ! Not 
 bad!" 
 
 And he walked right out, leaving Giles staring 
 blankly after him and muttering : " Particeps 
 [188]
 
 The Madness of Ben Larkin 
 
 criminis! Particeps criminis! What does he mean? 
 What's a particeps criminis eh? " 
 
 When Larkin arrived at the coast-guard station, 
 he found the dominie and Jack Cookson awaiting him, 
 both in a pretty state of anxiety. 
 
 Ben promptly poured forth his tale. It was a 
 remarkably accurate estimate of the whole situation, 
 considering that much of it was guesswork, and the 
 whole related by a delirious man. Horneycraft, he 
 was certain, had been knocked in the head. So had 
 he been, for that matter. That, to his disordered 
 brain, was quite sufficient proof. 
 
 " But the laird a smuggler ! " cried Larkin boister- 
 ously, as Cookson helped him off with his boots, while 
 the dominie mixed a hot potion. " The laird a smug- 
 gler ! That's the funniest thing of all. Well, well, 
 well!" 
 
 They got him to bed, finally, and induced him to 
 sleep, but only after he had " explained " everything 
 in detail, and assured Cookson that all that was neces- 
 sary wits to arrest Heather Bloom, Smuggle-erie, and 
 the whole crew of them the moment the Thistle Down 
 turned up. Then somebody would undoubtedly turn 
 king's evidence. 
 
 The Thistle Down had just left, practically speak- 
 ing, and was not expected to return for a week. 
 Therefore, the surprise next morning was superlative, 
 when Jack Cookson, who had been standing on the 
 [189]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 barren rocks reconnoitering the Firth with his tele- 
 scope, suddenly burst into the sick-room and re- 
 ported : 
 
 " The Thistle Down, sir ! Bearing up the Firth 
 under every stick and stitch, by thunder ! " 
 
 [190]
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 QUEER DOINGS 
 
 JACK COOKSON and the men of the coast-guard 
 were not the only persons who were thunderstruck 
 that Wednesday morning by the sudden, unlooked- 
 for, and unaccountable reappearance of the Thistle 
 Down. 
 
 All Morag was set by the ears, as the saying is. 
 All Morag knew by what sort of trade the schooner 
 profited, and this daring return in broad daylight, in 
 the face of the coast-guard, and, as was to be pre- 
 sumed, with half a hundred kegs of illicit whisky in 
 her hold, was beyond comprehension. In fifteen min- 
 utes the whisper had run from house to house that 
 something had gone wrong, and in twenty minutes 
 the beach was crowded with the anxious and the 
 curious. 
 
 But there were three persons, besides Cookson and 
 Larkin, who were stunned with astonishment and fear. 
 The first and second were Giles Scrymegeour and the 
 laird. The letter which Richard Halliday had dashed 
 off, after Ben Larkin's visit, was to the miser, warn- 
 ing him that " all was lost." Giles, full of dread, 
 
 [191]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 had taken the first opportunity, after Morag was 
 asleep, to slip up to the castle. 
 
 Nobody ever dreamed that Laird Halliday was 
 aware of the existence of Giles Scrymegeour even, 
 but such is the way of the world. As a matter of 
 fact, the laird's honor, like that of many a better 
 man, was on paper, and reposed with other similar 
 documents in the famous iron box. Subsequent 
 events, which have little to do with this story, proved 
 that the laird and his estate were mortgaged to the 
 throat, and in the clutches of Giles. 
 
 " I tell you the game's up ! " stormed the laird. 
 " I was a fool ever to go into it. But, thank God, 
 I've had little hand in cooking this mess." 
 
 " Except to shut your eyes," sneered Giles, " an' 
 to lend us the cover of your guid name and an estate 
 road." 
 
 " Well, that's nothing. What if I denied it? " 
 
 " Ye had yer share, had ye no? An' there's them 
 as kens it. But, hoot toot ! It's no as bad's that. 
 We could prove mair agin you than this lufftenant 
 could prove agin us. What if he does ken the stuff 
 came f rae Cothouse ? There's nothing there to prove 
 it not even a still. We foresaw that. It's juist a 
 clearin'-hoose for the mountain men. And what if 
 he kens o' the cave? If there's anything there 
 well, Smuggle-erie's a bigger fool than I tak' him to 
 be. I tell ye, a's safe, if we keep cool an' no meet 
 [192]
 
 Queer Doings 
 
 trouble half-way. The Thistle Down's gone. Catch 
 her if ye can, ses I ! An' she'll no come back wi' any- 
 thing contraband. Uncle Giles'll see to that ! " 
 
 " I hope so ! I hope so ! " quavered the laird. 
 " But I don't like it. See here ! As you're so cock- 
 sure, I'll off to Edinburgh for a month an' " 
 
 "Aye, aye!" said Giles coolly. "You'll off to 
 Edinburgh," an' see the ladies, an' spen' money at the 
 clubs an' the ilk, while old Giles, that owns the clo'es 
 on yer very back, 's to stay at hame an' bear a' yer 
 troubles. Na, na! Share an' share alike. That's 
 fair do ! And it cuts both ways, Mr. Halliday. But 
 far be it f rae me to remind you o' yer debts. It's no 
 generous. We're makin' a fash aboot nothing. The 
 man's been drunk for twa days, and he's just blether- 
 ing. Why, man, it was just yesterday he cam' into 
 my shop an' begins some haverin' aboot me bein' a a 
 what d'ye call it? a particeps criminis! The 
 man's dr 
 
 " A what? " howled the laird. " He called you a 
 what?" 
 
 And when Giles, with sudden fear, repeated the 
 words, the laird turned very pale, and swore by the 
 nine gods that he was going to Edinburgh. Then, 
 when Old Scryme had the bit of Latin translated for 
 him, he, too, flew into a miserable funk, and the pair 
 of worthies sat down and considered themselves fit 
 objects for the world's sympathy. 
 [193]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 Giles could have argued around any definite point 
 in the business, but this significant phrase completely 
 bowled him over. Latin was a thing for which Old 
 Scryme had a fearful respect, knowing none of it 
 himself. It was the kind of language doctors wrote 
 when they didn't want patients to know what they 
 were giving them, and it was the kind of language 
 Giles had seen on tombstones and heard in courts 
 of justice. The laird, himself, was not strong 
 on Latin, and his offhand interpretation increased 
 Giles's fears. This was like stabbing a man in the 
 dark. 
 
 They sat there by the big fire and argued over 
 every possibility in the whole business. When both 
 of them had talked themselves to despair, the laird 
 produced a bottle of old port. Forthwith they waxed 
 cunning, eloquent, and shrewdly argumentative, so 
 that by the time the cocks began to crow they were 
 agreed that all was not lost yet. Maybe that was all 
 the Latin Larkin knew. Anyway, the best policy 
 was to stand by and wait developments. 
 
 But when it came time for Giles to scurry back 
 to his hole like a highly respectable rat, and the laird 
 lifted the blind of the castle window to see that the 
 road was clear, both of them presented gray faces 
 toward each other, for there she was the Thistle 
 Down ! And while the laird crammed his clothes into 
 a grip-sack, Old Scryme scurried back to his shop, 
 [194]
 
 Queer Doings 
 
 locked the door on the inside, and sat on the iron 
 box, all a-shake with apprehension. 
 
 Grizel was the third person who opened her eyes 
 in wonder and terror when the schooner reappeared. 
 She had slept little during the two nights since her 
 father's departure. Her heart and mind were in 
 conflict over several matters. She was happy in the 
 knowledge that, after this voyage, Captain John 
 Grant would never go to sea again; but, in gaining 
 that compromise, she had grown from a child to a 
 woman. Her happiness in the fact that she had 
 saved her father's honor was mingled with the pain of 
 her other love. 
 
 She could not hate Smuggle-erie for what he had 
 done, for she believed that he had seized Ben Larkin 
 in order that this last trip might not end in disaster. 
 Yet her own presence and involuntary part in that 
 business had widened the gulf between her and Ben 
 Larkin. She made no secret of it to herself. Her 
 heart was his, although she could never hope that his 
 heart would be hers. 
 
 She had risen early from a sleepless bed that 
 Wednesday morning. The first thing that her eyes 
 fell upon was the schooner, with its curved, billowing 
 sails. She stood stock-still in the doorway of the 
 cottage and stared. 
 
 Then her heart began to beat like a hammer. Why 
 were they coming back? They could not have got 
 [195]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 rid of that compromising cargo so soon. Were they 
 mad? They surely must know what had happened 
 before they sailed. Her father knew of Larkin's dis- 
 covery, and for her sake, at least, he would never have 
 come back into the lion's jaws like this. Then a fear- 
 ful terror assailed her. Perhaps he was dead, and 
 the others did not know all that she had told him. 
 
 Whatever the cause of the return, there was the 
 Thistle Down. And there was the revenue cutter 
 racing out to meet her. In the stern sat a familiar 
 figure, Ben Larkin. Even in that moment of anguish, 
 her maternal solicitude inwardly chafed, that he 
 should be endangering his life again, when only the 
 night before the dominie had told her that he was a 
 very ill man. 
 
 But, mystery of all mysteries ! What was this her 
 eyes beheld? The Thistle Down had suddenly hove 
 to. They were lowering a boat and into it a barrel. 
 She could not see her father anywhere, but could 
 clearly discern Smuggle-erie directing movements. 
 Now she could see him lowering himself into the boat 
 and sitting at the stern. The boat pushed off, and 
 they were rowing toward the Bull Rock, under the 
 eyes of the whole coast-guard, and pursued by the 
 revenue cutter ! 
 
 Grizel stared like one stricken with a hallucination. 
 But it was true. Then they could not know that the 
 game was up ; that, whether they reached the cave or 
 [196]
 
 Queer Doings 
 
 not, the lieutenant would arrest them all. Her 
 father ! She had never a thought for Smuggle-erie ; 
 but, for her father's sake, she must save them all, 
 warn them all! 
 
 She seized her bonnet, but paused as she tied it on. 
 If she warned them, whethe.r she succeeded in saving 
 them or not, again would she stand before the man 
 she loved, afraid to explain, unable to defend herself. 
 For a moment her mind and her heart battled. No ! 
 Her father was her father, after all. She had always 
 had him, and might always have him. Larkin was 
 
 nothing to her at least She tied the strings of 
 
 her bonnet, ran out of the house, and away toward the 
 gardener's lodge. 
 
 After all, if Ben Larkin had his duty to perform 
 before his love, so had she! 
 
 In the meantime, all Morag was on the beach, with 
 the exception, perhaps, of Giles Scrymegeour. And 
 all Morag was staggered at what was going on before 
 their eyes. They saw the cutter racing to meet the 
 schooner, and the men of the schooner lowering a big 
 half-puncheon. Why all this business about a single 
 barrel, when there should be half a hundred telltale 
 kegs still aboard? The same thought occurred to 
 Ben Larkin, who sat at the tiller of the cutter, crying 
 in a crazy voice to his men to make greater speed. 
 
 But when the boat pushed off from the schooner's 
 side and darted away toward the Bull Rock, he cried 
 [197]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 a halt, for this was beyond him. Was it a trick to 
 divert attention from the schooner? Or was the 
 whole thing a delusion of his delirious brain? Was 
 it possible that the fools were going to run the Bull 
 Rock passage in broad daylight, with the tide 
 low? 
 
 " Away ! " he yelled, and swung the tiller to port. 
 
 The Thistle Down was too big a business to escape 
 detection, should smuggling be tried. Besides, the 
 boat could be captured before it reached the rock and 
 towed back to the schooner. The men bent their 
 backs and strained their muscles over the oars. It 
 was the great race over again; but this time, under 
 what altered circumstances ! Larkin knew the pas- 
 sage nearly as well as they did. And it was broad 
 daylight. The whole of Morag was shouting and 
 cheering on the shore. 
 
 Bit by bit, the cutter overhauled the smuggler. 
 The big barrel towered above the heads of the rowers, 
 but Larkin could see Smuggle-erie over the top of it, 
 with a grin on his face as marked as a new moon. 
 What was he grinning about ? Larkin's fevered blood 
 boiled. He felt his very brain take fire. 
 
 His eyes saw red, and he heard himself yelling at 
 his crew, while to his ears came the distant roar of the 
 onlookers, who waved their arms and yelled from the 
 very water's edge. The remainder of the Thistle 
 Down's crew had climbed into the rigging, and they, 
 [198]
 
 Queer Doings 
 
 too, were adding their lung power to the general 
 pandemonium. 
 
 " This is madness madness ! " muttered Larkin. 
 Nevertheless, he urged on his men. 
 
 Foot by foot they overhauled the smuggler's craft. 
 The turn of the rock came. The Thistle Down's boat 
 shot into the passage and was lost to sight for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Go on ! Go on ! " yelled Larkin. " If he can do 
 it, I can ! " 
 
 The cutter raced into the dangerous passage, Lar- 
 kin steering with consummate skill amid the grazing 
 fangs of rock. The ripples of the smugglers* track 
 were his only chart and compass, but on the cutter 
 went, unharmed. Midway, .the lieutenant raised his 
 eyes. There was the mouth of the cave, yawning 
 wide open as he had expected to find it, but 
 
 The smugglers' track did not go near it. The rip- 
 ples continued right on through the passage; and 
 when Larkin looked, there was Smuggle-erie standing 
 up in the stern of the Thistle Down's boat as it shot 
 out at the other end of the passage. 
 
 Larkin was balked ! But he had been hard to beat. 
 The smugglers knew it. They had seen few men, 
 least of all a stranger, dare that passage of the Bull 
 Rock. Smuggle-erie, filled with generous admira- 
 tion, took off his hat and yelled : 
 
 " Three cheers for the revenue chiel ! " 
 [199]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 The smugglers took it up, and the cheering was 
 echoed ashore and from the rigging of the schooner. 
 
 Larkin stood up, swaying as he did so, and ac- 
 knowledged the cheers of the generous victor with a 
 salute. But in that instant he noticed that the barrel 
 was no longer in the smugglers' boat. Where was 
 it? He sat down quickly and yelled a command to 
 his men. The cutter swung to the left. 
 
 " Now, m'lads ! " shouted Larkin. " Two good 
 strokes and ship oars ! " 
 
 The men obeyed. With his head bent forward and 
 his hand gripping the tiller, Larkin drove the boat 
 right into the gloom of the sea cave. Here, un- 
 doubtedly, he would find the barrel and the smugglers' 
 accomplices. They, at least, would be trapped, for 
 the gardener's lodge was surrounded, if Jack Cookson 
 had carried out his orders. 
 
 Ben Larkin was first to scramble up on the rocks. 
 A dim shadow leaped forward to meet him. A light 
 hand fell upon his arm, and a voice whispered : 
 
 " Smuggle-erie ! " 
 
 It was Grizel. There was not another living thing 
 in the cave, nor any sign of a barrel or smugglery. 
 A sudden darkness swept over Ben Larkin's heart, 
 soul, and brain. 
 
 He turned away from the girl. 
 
 " No, madam," said he brokenly. " Not Smuggle- 
 erie. Only Ben Larkin ! " 
 
 [200]
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 " BARREL BARREL WHO'S GOT THE BARREL? " 
 
 A SEARCH of the Thistle Down followed. Nothing 
 came to light but the sickness of Captain Grant, who 
 was presently carried ashore on a stretcher. Lieu- 
 tenant Ben Larkin, also, was practically carried to 
 the coast-guard station. He was completely used up. 
 
 Not a drop of illicit whisky not a bit of con- 
 traband had been found on the schooner. The bar- 
 rel the mysterious barrel had vanished. Smug- 
 gle-erie's wit had completely tricked the revenue of- 
 ficers. 
 
 It was then that Morag heaved a sigh of relief, 
 although the continuing topic of the day was the bar- 
 rel. What was in this barrel, that so much fuss had 
 been made about it? And where was the barrel? 
 That was the main thing. It presently became al- 
 most a joke, and the Morag worthies chuckled on the 
 street and along the beach, and cried jocularly to one 
 another : 
 
 " Barrel barrel who's got the barrel? " 
 
 None but Smuggle-erie knew, or was at liberty to 
 say. Grogblossom and the rest were asked, but they 
 [201]
 
 T,he Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 only shrugged their shoulders, looked preternaturally 
 glum, and said : " Ask Smuggle-erie." That young 
 man swaggered down the one and only street of 
 Morag with a peculiar grin upon his face. To all 
 questions he merely answered: 
 
 "Wait!" 
 
 Jack Cookson held a stormy interview with him, 
 and charged him outright with being a smuggler. 
 
 " Don't answer ! " he cried. " Don't you dare to 
 answer! I don't need to be told. I know it, by 
 thunder! And so does everybody." 
 
 " I wish I could help you to prove it," retorted 
 Smuggle-erie. 
 
 " Prove it ? Prove it ? Hang proof ! " Cookson 
 bellowed. " What did you do with that barrel, ye 
 rapscallion ? " 
 
 " What barrel? " Smuggle-erie asked in mild sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " The barrel I seen you put in the boat and row 
 around the Bull Rock." 
 
 " Did you see a barrel? " Smuggle-erie inquired 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Yes, sir a barrel a b-r-a-1 ! Ain't that plain 
 enough? " 
 
 " A barrel ! " said Smuggle-erie, pretending ex- 
 treme amazement. " Here ! " he added, angrily turn- 
 ing upon the grinning crowd. " Who's got that 
 barrel? " 
 
 [202 ]
 
 " Barrel Barrel Who's Got the Barrel?" 
 
 Whereat the crowd burst out in a roar of laughter. 
 Joining hands, they danced in a circle around the 
 coast guard, sing-songing like children: 
 
 " Barrel ! Barrel ! Who's got the barrel ? " 
 
 The coast-guard, fuming with rage, stamped away, 
 after cracking several over the head with his ancient 
 telescope. Smuggle-erie, himself, made straight for 
 " Uncle " Giles's shop. He found the miser in a state 
 of clamminess. 
 
 " Come in, lad," he whined. " Come right in ! 
 Here, hae a cigar. Tak' twa ! " And after this un- 
 precedented fit of generosity, Old Scryme started to 
 lock up the shop. 
 
 " Stop that, you old shrimp ! " cried Smuggle-erie. 
 " If you can't keep your head straight, lock up your 
 conscience, but leave that door alone. Come here! 
 Sit down ! Hand me an apple ! Give me a light ! 
 Hold it ! " Puff Puff Puff. " There, now ! Be 
 a good little nunky, and do as you're told." 
 
 " Aye, aye, lad," the miser made haste to answer. 
 " But losh ! it's the sair fright I've had this day. 
 Guid help us! What does it a' mean? Here's the 
 Thistle Down come back, an' a' sorts o' didoes kicking 
 up, an' runnin' the gantlet in broad day, an' the cap'n 
 carried ashore on a stretcher, an' a revenue off'cer 
 spoutin' Latin, an' the laird skedaddled to Edinbro'. 
 What's it a' aboot? " 
 
 " And so the laird's skedaddled, eh? " said Smug- 
 [203]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 gle-erie. " Well, he's a good riddance. There never 
 was a bigger coward, unless it's yourself. And how's 
 nunky feeling, hey?" He poked Giles in the ribs. 
 Giles gave a scream of hysterical laughter, and then 
 sat down in a quaking heap. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, haud off ! " he gurgled. 
 " Ye'll be the death o' me." 
 
 " I always said so swore so and meant so ! " was 
 the cool assertion. 
 
 " Aye, aye ! " with a silly giggle. " Ye will hae 
 yer joke. But tell a man, Smuggle-erie. Hae an- 
 other cigar? Tak' the box. Ye ken where they 
 come frae hey, lad? Noo, tell's aboot it." 
 
 " Well," said Smuggle-erie, drawing a long, 
 luxurious, deliberate whiff from his cigar. " As they 
 say in the kirk when somebody's taken bad, owing to 
 a sudden indisposition on the part of Captain Grant, 
 and thinking it would be better to bring him home 
 alive than in a barrel I mean, a coffin I put back 
 into Morag." 
 
 " Aye, lad," said Giles, overlooking the peculiar 
 slip; " but but the whusky, lad? " 
 
 " And in order to save ourselves that is, you for 
 instance," continued Smuggle-erie airily, " I made a 
 virtue of a necessity, as the dominie would say 
 
 " Never mind the dominie ! " Old Scryme protested. 
 
 " And threw every keg of it overboard ! " 
 
 " Eh? " gasped Giles, relief dawning upon his face. 
 [204]
 
 " BarrelBarrel Who's Got the Barrel?" 
 
 " Weel done, lad weel done ! But what a waste 
 what a waste ! " he added mournfully. 
 
 Smuggle-erie took the cigar from his mouth, stared 
 at nunky with big solemn eyes, and finally blurted 
 out: 
 
 " My, but you're thrifty ! " 
 
 " Aye, aye, lad ! But I dare say it was a' for the 
 best a' for the best." 
 
 " Imphm ! " hummed Smuggle-erie. " A' for the 
 best maybe." 
 
 " But what about yon barrel? " whispered Old 
 Scryme. " What devil's prank was yon ? " 
 
 " Oh, that ! " said Smuggle-erie carelessly. " As 
 you say, nunky, I will hae my joke, an-' that was my 
 bit joke on the luff tenant, just to show the coast- 
 guard that they are no match for the lads o' Morag, 
 even in broad daylight." 
 
 " Aye, aye ! " chuckled Giles. " Ye will hae yer 
 joke. But ye're awfu' reckless fearfu' reckless. 
 But where's the barrel, Smuggle-erie? " 
 
 " Ah ! " said Smuggle-erie knowingly, and wag- 
 ging his finger in nunky's face. "That's just it! 
 Where's the barrel? They say they saw a barrel. 
 Well, where's the barrel? Barrel, barrel, who's got 
 the barrel ? I can see the lord advocate laughing." 
 
 " Wheesht, man ! " cried Giles in agony. " Dinna 
 talk aboot sic a person. But where's the barrel, lad? 
 Ye can surely tell nunky." 
 
 [205]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Barrel ! " roared Smuggle-erie, suddenly losing 
 his temper. "Is everybody daft? What barrel? 
 I never saw a barrel ! It wasna a barrel ye saw it 
 was a ghost! Boo ! " 
 
 Smuggle-erie said it in such a way that Giles's 
 weak heart nearly ceased to beat for all time. He 
 leaned heavily against the counter and gasped for 
 breath : 
 
 " Losh, Smuggle-erie, ye're a clever lad, but awfu' 
 reckless unco reckless ! " 
 
 " Well, don't let me hear any more about that bar- 
 rel ! " Smuggle-erie shouted, shaking his fist in Old 
 Scryme's face. " Where's Horneycraft? " 
 
 " I I dunno ! " whined Old Scryme. 
 
 " Neither do I," chuckled Smuggle-erie, his eyes 
 twinkling. 
 
 With that he walked out, puffing the contraband 
 cigar, and quite regardless of the fact that his guard- 
 ian was lying across the counter, fighting for the 
 breath of life, and blue with agony. 
 
 Smuggle-erie walked to the coast-guard station on 
 the barren rocks at the north end of the village. In 
 the parlor he was received by the dominie and Jack 
 Cookson, the former grave and disapproving, the lat- 
 ter tempestuous and purple. 
 
 " Well, sir ! " thundered Jack Cookson. " I sup- 
 pose you've come to turn king's evidence, like an 
 honest man." 
 
 [206]
 
 " Barrel Barrel Who's Got the Barrel? " 
 
 " Exactly what I've come for," said Smuggle-erie 
 coolly. 
 
 "Then, by thunder! it's just what I'd expect of 
 such a rapscallious rogue." 
 
 " Is the lieutenant well enough to take down 
 what I have to say ? " asked Smuggle-erie of the 
 dominie. 
 
 "Tut, tut! What's all this nonsense?" the 
 dominie stammered, completely taken aback. " King's 
 evidence ! King's evidence ? " 
 
 " That's what I said." 
 
 " Tut, tut ! My dear young man I I the fact 
 is, I think indeed, I may say, from a professional 
 standpoint, that I disapprove of the entire proceed- 
 ings. Go away and and consider that what you 
 have said is under the seal of professional confidence. 
 I Bless my soul, I never heard the like ! No, young 
 man. The lieutenant is too ill to hear you, or even to 
 understand you if he heard. I would advise you to 
 come to-morrow and and be a little more discreet in 
 speaking in the presence of one who is not only a 
 medico, but a bailie in the land." 
 
 With that he turned his back on both Smuggle-erie 
 and the coast-guard and vanished into the sick-room. 
 
 " What ! " snorted Cookson. " Is it possible he's a 
 smuggler, too? Is it possible I have nursed a wam- 
 pire at my heart ? By thunder! " 
 
 " Not a bit," said Smuggle-erie with a laugh. 
 [207]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " He's no smuggler just a good old soul. He's 
 been up at the cottage, hasn't he ? " 
 
 " That he has." 
 
 " I thought so. 'Morning, Coast-guard." 
 
 And Smuggle-erie went away, looking very grave. 
 He understood the dominie's reprimand; but, then, 
 the dominie, he reflected, didn't know all that he 
 knew. 
 
 Smuggle-erie, himself, went to the cottage with the 
 flagstaff. Mrs. Martin met him at the door with a 
 face that would have shamed saltpeter. 
 
 " How's the skipper? " he asked earnestly. 
 
 " None of your business, ye heathen malefactor ! " 
 she sniffed. 
 
 " I want to see him." 
 
 "Ye can't!" 
 
 " Well, I must see Grizel." 
 
 " Ye sha'n't ! " 
 
 " Very well," said Smuggle-erie sadly. Presently 
 he brightened up. " Perhaps it's just as well. But 
 if the skipper wakes up and looks to be uneasy about 
 anything, tell him to leave it all to Smuggle-erie ! " 
 
 Later, he went aboard the Thistle Down. Most of 
 the crew had returned, in order to evade questioning ; 
 and principally because they were afraid to remain 
 ashore. Smuggle-erie avoided the score of question- 
 ing eyes that sought his. He went straight forward 
 to the men's quarters, where the Red Mole and his son 
 [208]
 
 (f Barrel Barrel Who's Got the Barrel? " 
 
 had been imprisoned in a dark cubby-hole. He 
 lighted a lantern and stepped inside. The two men 
 were sitting on the floor, with their hands tied behind 
 them. 
 
 " Listen to me," said Smuggle-erie. " We are 
 eager to save our necks. The game's up for all of us. 
 If you want to save your necks and you're worse off 
 than we are, by a long sight you'd better do as I tell 
 you. The barrel's ashore. Where it is, nobody kens 
 but them that ought to ken. It's going to be pro- 
 duced to-morrow. And you two are going to be there 
 if you're good. What are you going to do when 
 the coast-guard opens that barrel? " 
 
 Archibald did not answer, but the Red Mole looked 
 up and said with a pitiful moan : 
 
 " Anything anything ye say ! " 
 
 " Well, you'll tuni king's evidence, and repeat just 
 what you said beyond Ailsa Craig. Is that clear 
 enough, or do you want to stay in there till the rats 
 nibble ye? " 
 
 "Na,na! I'll tell! I'll tell! I canna do more ! " 
 cried the Red Mole. 
 
 " Or less. All right." And Smuggle-erie closed 
 the door, locked it, blew out the lamp, and went aft 
 to the cook's galley. 
 
 " Pipe up, Grogblossom ! " said he. 
 
 Grogblossom, very pale and very sober, produced 
 his tin whistle and played a bar or two of " Pease 
 [209]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 Brose." The men mustered in a group by the galley 
 door. Smuggle-erie cleared his throat and spoke 
 quietly to them. 
 
 " See here, m'lads," he said. " We're in as ugly a 
 hole as we could well be in. You've been wondering 
 why 1 put back into Mo rag, especially with that thing 
 aboard. Lads, the game was up. The revenue was 
 getting too much for us ; and, as you know, this was 
 to have been the last risk. 
 
 " We would ha' won, maybe, and that would ha' 
 been the end of it ; but smuggling's one crime if it is 
 a crime and murder's another. Even if we had 
 been caught smuggling, it wouldn't have meant dan- 
 gling by the neck on the gallows ; but this thing does, 
 if we don't clear ourselves. 
 
 " A revenue officer was killed and found on this 
 ship, whose master and crew were wanted for smug- 
 gling. Give a dog a bad name, and you might as 
 well give him poison at once." His voice suddenly 
 dropped to a whisper almost, and his words came 
 through his teeth. " You know who killed Horney- 
 craft. They I mean he, mainly would have 
 shoveled his dirt on us, and if he doesn't try to shovel 
 his crime on us, it'll be because Smuggle-erie isn't 
 smart enough to beat him. To-morrow this murder 
 is going to come out, and Smuggle-erie's going to let 
 it out. I'm going to let it out, lads, in such a way 
 that the stink of it will make our little failings seem 
 [210]
 
 ff Barrel Barrel Who's Got the Barrel?" 
 
 like the rustle of angels' wings in comparison. You 
 understand me ? " 
 
 The men grunted a doubtful kind of approval. 
 
 " You don't ! " said Smuggle-erie tersely. " Well, 
 you don't need to. I'll carry it through myself. But 
 understand this : the bigger fuss you make, the harder 
 you drive at Giles Scrymegeour and the Red Mole, 
 the thicker you lay it on about the poor old skipper 
 and the thing in the barrel, and the praying and so 
 forth, the more you'll make people forget that the 
 beginning of this was smugglery. This is murder 
 murder you understand the rankest kind of cold- 
 blooded murder, and the man that did it was the man 
 who was capable of thumbscrewing every man in his 
 employ. If there's any talk of smugglery, ram it 
 home with the murder, and see if you don't all come 
 out with angels' wings sprouting out of your shoul- 
 der-blades. That's all!" 
 
 Every man remained aboard the schooner that 
 night, by Smuggle-erie's order. But shortly after 
 midnight, when Morag was as quiet as a churchyard, 
 he and the carpenter, Black, rowed ashore and quietly 
 beached their boat. Then they went to the lodge. 
 They entered the cave, where the tide was low, and the 
 starlight shone dimly at the sea-end. 
 
 Smuggle-erie lit a lantern, which he had brought 
 along, and gave it to Black, who also carried a coil 
 [211]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 of rope. Presently the two men stripped naked, and 
 Smuggle-erie waded out into the low-tide waters at 
 the mouth of the tunnel. 
 
 At the very outside the water did not rise above his 
 waist. He reached his hand down before him, and 
 presently he called back in a whisper : 
 
 " All right, lad. Leave the lamp and bring the 
 rope. It's here ! " 
 
 Next morning, Giles Scrymegeour, on opening his 
 shop after a night of bad dreams, found a barrel re- 
 posing at his front door. 
 
 [212]
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A SENSATION IN MORAG 
 
 GILES SCRYMEGEOUR looked long and stupidly at 
 the barrel. What kind of joke was this? It must 
 be said that at the precise moment Giles was quite in- 
 nocent of the contents of the half -puncheon. Indeed, 
 it was some minutes before it even occurred to his 
 dazed mind that this might be the barrel that every- 
 body was gossiping about. 
 
 Then, slowly, into his eyes there dawned a look of 
 horror and dread. The worm had turned! That 
 was his first thought. Heather Bloom had caused 
 this compromising thing to be placed at his door. 
 The fact that Heather Bloom would not have dared, 
 or cared, to do such an unprofitable thing, never oc- 
 curred to him. As a matter of fact, the miser was 
 striving in his mind to explain the presence of the 
 barrel with something other than the truth, which 
 was knocking and whispering at the door of his 
 craven heart. 
 
 It would not down. His conscience would not al- 
 low that there was only whisky in the puncheon, or 
 that if there was whisky, there was nothing else. The 
 [213]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 barrel was familiar. He had seen it at Cothouse ; but, 
 then, there were hundreds thousands millions of 
 barrels in the world like it. But it would not down. 
 
 True, Scrymegeour had not known just how the 
 Red Mole would get rid of the the Thing. He 
 hated to give it a name, even in his thought. But 
 he suddenly remembered two things which Smuggle- 
 erie had said that about bringing home Grant in " a 
 barrel that is, a coffin," and also that queer explo- 
 sive question: "Where's Horney craft? " 
 
 Yes ! This was Smuggle-erie's work. The per- 
 spiration stood in big beads on Old Scryme's face, 
 although the morning was quite fresh. But he ut- 
 tered a silly laugh. Of course ! Why had he not 
 thought of it before? This was one of Smuggle- 
 erie's jokes? Ha, ha! He would have his joke. 
 A clever lad, but reckless fearfu' reckless ! But it 
 would not down. 
 
 All at once the miser was seized with a panic of 
 fear. The whispering and knocking at his cowardly 
 conscience became a thundering and shrieking of 
 certainty. He must get this barrel out of the way ! 
 Morag was awaking. There was the dominie coming 
 from the sick-room of the coast-guard station. He 
 could hear voices among the cottages, and smoke was 
 rising from the chimneys. He must get this barrel 
 out of sight quick! 
 
 [214]
 
 A Sensation in Morag 
 
 He laid his hot, trembling hands upon it. The 
 cold iron rings stung him like serpents. He drew 
 away his hands, and a pitiable wail of abject agony 
 burst from his throat. Then came the despair of 
 guilt. He flung open the shop door, seized the barrel, 
 and began hurdling it inside. It was heavy. And 
 strangely balanced ! He could not feel the even 
 weight of liquid, but his frenzied imagination seemed 
 to hear the sullen rolling and rumbling. 
 
 Toiling thus, he was discovered by the old dominie, 
 who had been up all night between the station and 
 the cottage with the flagstaff. 
 
 " Ah, good-morning, my friend," said the venerable 
 old gentleman, with a smile. " Strange, is it not 
 and yet not strange that the night's despair van- 
 ishes with the freshness of a new day. Hope, like 
 life, begins another era, one might say, and 
 
 The dominie stopped. Giles Scrymegeour was 
 leering at him, with the eyes of a rat in a 
 cage. 
 
 " I see you are busy. Is this the famous barrel 
 that " 
 
 " It's a lie," Scrymegeour snarled. " It's my 
 barrel. Mine, I tell ye ! " 
 
 " Bless my soul, I had no doubt of it not a doubt 
 of it ! " exclaimed the dominie testily. 
 
 He would have passed on after this surly reception, 
 but something stern and comprehending suddenly 
 [215]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 leaped into his eyes. He turned upon the miser with 
 a certain bracing of his old, bent shoulders. 
 
 "Ha!" he ejaculated. 
 
 The dominie had been learning things in the last 
 twenty-four hours things that had at first aston- 
 ished him, then pained him, for he was a believer 
 in the inherent goodness of mankind, and which 
 finally puzzled him. There was something back of 
 all this miserable revelation about Captain John 
 Grant. That conviction had haunted the dominie. 
 Now he thought he saw it, and knowing Giles Scryme- 
 geour's record, he was surprised that he had never 
 thought of it before. Giles Scrymegeour was the 
 thing behind the curtain, as one might say. 
 
 " It suddenly occurs to me," said he to Giles, with 
 a certain stateliness of manner and tone, " that I 
 have seen this barrel before." 
 
 " And what if ye have, ye auld busybody ! " was 
 the retort. " Hae ye never seen a barrel afore? " 
 
 " This one certainly ! It is the barrel which dis- 
 appeared. How comes it, my friend, in your hands, 
 when so much may hang by its appearance or non- 
 appearance ? " 
 
 " It's none o' your beez'ness ! " snapped Giles. 
 
 " Be so good as to remember, Giles Scrymegeour, 
 that you are addressing a gentleman and a king's 
 magistrate. Can you account for this barrel? " 
 
 Old Scryme's nerve quaked before the grand old 
 [216]
 
 A Sensation in Morag 
 
 gentleman. He suddenly burst out in a volley of 
 protest. 
 
 " It's my barrel ! " he whined. " I forgot to talc' 
 it into the shop last night. It was unusual careless 
 o' me." 
 
 That convinced the dominie. Giles lied, and he 
 knew it. He had passed the miser's shop several 
 times during the night on his way to and from the 
 coast-guard station and the cottage with the flag- 
 staff. 
 
 " I am afraid you equivocate," said the dominie. 
 " I am in a position to know that that barrel was 
 not obstructing the front of your shop before three 
 o'clock this morning. I think that article should 
 be placed in the hands of the revenue inspectors." 
 
 Giles was in a bad corner, and every moment the 
 danger was increasing. People were beginning to 
 stir in the street, and several, attracted by the un- 
 usual sight of the dominie and Giles Scrymegeour 
 holding talk over a rum puncheon at six o'clock in 
 the morning, were edging up to gratify their curios- 
 ity. Giles saw that something had to be done, es- 
 pecially as Smuggle-erie and the bigger half of the 
 Thistle Down crew suddenly appeared, as if by 
 magic, and bore down upon the scene. 
 
 " Here, Thompson ! " cried Giles to a passer-by, 
 and with an assumption of diffidence. " Gie's a hand 
 into the shop wi' this barrel." 
 [217]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Oh, aye ! " said the man, Thompson, coming for- 
 ward. Suddenly he cried out : " Why, certes ! it's 
 the barrel, lads Smuggle-erie's barrel ! Hey ! Send 
 for the coast-guard." 
 
 " He's coming ! He's coming ! " was the cry. 
 And, sure enough, Jack Cookson's telescope caught 
 a glint of the sun, as the old coast-guard came 
 along the strip of beach between the barren rocks 
 and the village. 
 
 Giles looked around in a hunted way. It seemed 
 as if there was a general conspiracy against him, 
 which there might have been, judging by the grin 
 on Smuggle-erie's face. 
 
 " It's the barrel ! It's the barrel ! " cried several, 
 and one added : " Certes it is ! I'd ken it in a 
 thoosan', an' forbye I had a guid squint at 
 it." 
 
 "I tell ye it's mine!" shrieked Giles. "Hey, 
 Smuggle-erie ! " he added, turning upon his grinning 
 " nephew," as a sort of desperate resource. " Is 
 this your barrel, or is it no ? " 
 
 " Far be it from me to be a judge of such matters," 
 replied Smuggle-erie, casting his eyes upward in a 
 kind of pious horror. " Don't drag me into your 
 troubles, nunky." 
 
 " Oh, why don't you say it at once? It's the 
 barrel ! " cried the carpenter, Black, with a broad 
 wink. 
 
 [218]
 
 A Sensation in Morag 
 
 " It's me that kens it," Grogblossom groaned au- 
 dibly. 
 
 " Then, if it's yours, it's no mine ! " cried the miser. 
 " What would I be doin' wi' yer barrel? " 
 
 " That's just it," said the dominie. " What are 
 you doing with it? They declare it is theirs." 
 
 " Then," said Old Scryme generously, " I wash 
 my hands o' it ; an', seein' it's no mine, I'll be obliged 
 if ye'll tak' it away frae my shop door." 
 
 " But how did he get the barrel? " cried Smuggle- 
 erie suddenly. 
 
 " Where did you lose it ? " the dominie inquired 
 pertinently. 
 
 " I thought everybody saw for themselves," said 
 Smuggle-erie glibly. " It fell overboard as we were 
 rowing it ashore." 
 
 " Well ! " cried the miser triumphantly ; " if ye 
 will poke yer nose into my affairs, and ye will ken 
 I found it on the beach this mornin', and who finds 
 keeps he, he ! who finds keeps ! That's the law 
 eh, dominie you that's a bailie in the land ? " 
 
 " Not so," the dominie dissented. " Who finds 
 does not keep until the nature of the wreck which has 
 been washed ashore has been examined by the author- 
 ity appointed for that purpose, and all efforts to 
 determine the owner have failed. In the event of the 
 owner being determined the said owner shall pay 
 salvage to the finder of the wreck." 
 [219]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir beggin' your pardon, sir ! " put 
 in Grogblossom. " We're quite willin' that Mr. 
 Scrymegeour should have the salvage on the con- 
 tents." 
 
 *' Then, gentlemen," concluded the dominie 
 grandly, "the law, as applied to such cases, being 
 stated by me, as a bailie in the land, it now becomes 
 my duty to turn over this article of wreck to the 
 duly appointed receiver of wrecks." 
 
 " Do what ye please wi't ! " cried Giles, turning 
 in the doorway of his shop. " It's none o' my 
 beez'ness." 
 
 " Tut, tut ! " said the dominie, with a queer flick- 
 ering in his eyes. " It behooves you, as a citizen 
 and a subject of King George and his laws, to come 
 with me before the receiver of wrecks and state how, 
 where, and when you came into possession of this 
 article of wreck." 
 
 " And who may this precious receiver o' wrecks 
 be ? " Giles sneered, attempting to hide his new fear. 
 
 " Ha hmm ! " said the dominie, a little floored for 
 a moment. 
 
 There was no regular receiver of wrecks in Morag, 
 where the ocean's bounty had hitherto been men's 
 perquisite. 
 
 But the dominie was not to be floored on any point 
 of law. " The law," he stated finally, " provides 
 that, in the event of there being no regular receiver 
 [220]
 
 A Sensation in Morag 
 
 of wrecks, the coast-guard shall be authorized to act, 
 with full powers appertaining." 
 
 " That's so, by thunder ! " cried Jack Cookson 
 pompously, as he stepped into the circle. " I ain't 
 strong on book-larnin', but that's as the law pro- 
 wides with full powers appertaining likewise." 
 
 " Hear, hear ! " And the crowd gladdened the 
 coast-guard's heart with a cheer, which he acknowl- 
 edged like an admiral. 
 
 In order that the whole proceedings should not lack 
 an iota of dignity, the receiver of wrecks loudly 
 commanded that the barrel and all witnesses be taken 
 to the burgh hall, the institution where the kirk 
 elders and the parochial board held their meetings. 
 Here Jack Cookson, in all the glory of his new honor, 
 rapped order on the moderator's table with his tele- 
 scope and opened the court of inquiry. 
 
 The whole business smacked of the ludicrous, which 
 must have been terribly grim to Smuggle-erie and 
 those who knew what was in that barrel. Little 
 did the coast-guard, or even the dominie, dream that 
 the lives and future of many depended on what was 
 about to happen. Smuggle-erie and his men kept in 
 the background, a sign which Giles Scrymegeour 
 misinterpreted. He saw fear in their backwardness, 
 and took hope for himself. As a matter of fact, 
 had he taken the trouble to look closer, he would 
 have seen that which would have filled his heart with 
 [221]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 abject terror the Red Mole and his son, surrounded 
 by the crew of the Thistle Down. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the coast-guard, " as receiver 
 of wrecks for the parish and town of Morag, it is 
 my solemn dooty to open an inquiry into the cir- 
 cumstances surrounding the finding of a barrel on 
 these here shores. Ahem ! 
 
 " The barrel, as I understand from reli'ble wit- 
 nesses mainly my own eyes was fust seen in the 
 hands of persons whom I have every reason to 
 suspect to believe to know, by thunder! are 
 smugglers ! " 
 
 This he roared out with a glare at Smuggle-erie, 
 who returned the charge with an amiable grin. 
 
 " For reasons which we can guess, gentlemen o' 
 the jury (without goin' further into the matter), 
 them smuggler persons did attempt and try to 
 smuggle the said barrel to the said shore of the said 
 parish and town of Morag." And the coast-guard 
 rapped his telescope on the moderator's table, and 
 glanced at the dominie as one who would say: " Can 
 you beat that? " 
 
 " The barrel, as there are witnesses to prove," the 
 receiver of wrecks went on, " disappeared somewhere 
 ahint the Bull Rock. Dick Scrymegeour, alias 
 Smuggle-erie, has stated that the blame thing that 
 is to say, the barrel fell overboard. Howsomede'er 
 that was, or is, or may be, the said barrel is next 
 [222]
 
 A Sensation in Morag 
 
 discovered by a larned and reli'ble witness in the 
 possession of one Giles Scrymegeour, who fust says 
 it's his barrel, then it ain't his barrel. The p'int, 
 gentlemen o' the jury, which I am asked to detarmine 
 is : Whose is the blame barrel? 
 
 " But, fust " here the receiver of wrecks looked 
 like a judge about to sentence a culprit " while it 
 ain't in my c'mission as receiver of wrecks to inquire 
 into anything beyond the ownership o' this here 
 barrel, as coast-guard of his majesty the king God 
 bless 'im ! there's some things here as want lookin' 
 into, an' it's my dooty to do it. 
 
 " Fust and foremost, then, the court orders that 
 that there barrel be opened, forthwith and imme- 
 diate ! " 
 
 Then the barrel was opened. 
 
 There are some things in life which are better left 
 undescribed. The scene that immediately ensued is 
 one of them. The recorder of this tale has a con- 
 fused memory of a deathly stillness, followed by a 
 sudden buzzing of tongues, swelling into a roar of 
 horror, which as quickly died again into sepulchral 
 silence. There is also a memory of a white-haired 
 coast-guard leaning across the moderator's table, all 
 the pride of race and calling gone from his face, 
 and of a crook-backed, rat-like man chewing his 
 mouth like a person in a fit. 
 
 Then came a rush of feet. The crowd parted and, 
 [223]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 through the lane thus formed, Smuggle-erie and sev- 
 eral of his men rushed the Red Mole and the morose 
 Archibald. 
 
 " Now ! " cried Smuggle-erie, and his voice rang 
 out clear and trumpet-like in the breathless air, 
 " say what you said beyond Ailsa Craig, when that 
 barrel was first opened." 
 
 Then the Red Mole spoke: 
 
 " It's a lie, sir your lordship ! " he wailed. 
 " They want to put it on me. They beat me till 
 I promised ! " His voice suddenly arose in a defiant, 
 desperate yell. " They done it ! They done it, I 
 tell ye ! I saw them do it on the ship on the 
 Thistle Down ! It was him that done it ! " pointing 
 to the checkmated Smuggle-erie. " It was him and 
 Heather Bloom that murdered him and put him in 
 the barrel ! " 
 
 Again the stillness, broken at length by a queer 
 throaty cry from Giles Scrymegeour the cry of a 
 hunted animal which, in the moment of despair, sees 
 a way to turn the tables. 
 
 " Ah ! " he gurgled. 
 
 And a sudden smile lit up the face of the sphinx- 
 like Archibald. 
 
 [224]
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 GRIZEL TO THE RESCUE 
 
 THE dominie was the first to recover. Rising in 
 his seat, he overlooked the coast-guard's right of pre- 
 cedence, and addressed the people: 
 
 " My friends," he said, with great sorrow in his 
 tones, " I have known you all since you were born. 
 You have been to me as the children of my days, 
 and it has been an honor to be your father in many 
 things. 
 
 " There are two men absent from this room whom 
 I would wish to have had present. One has fallen 
 in the service of his king and country, and little he 
 knows, as he lies in the coast-guard house, that his 
 labors have borne a fruit which is bitter, but just to 
 all. The mills of God have completed his task. 
 
 " The other is Captain John Grant, master of 
 the Thistle Down. He, with many others here, has 
 been charged with a terrible crime. The fact that 
 he may, or may not, be the smuggler Heather Bloom, 
 concerns us little in the face of the tragedy now 
 before our eyes. That matter I leave for other 
 judgment. What principally concerns me, and all 
 [225]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 of us, is that murder has been done, and it becomes 
 my painful duty to ascertain, by a preliminary in- 
 vestigation, at whose door this murder should be 
 laid. I " 
 
 " It's a lie ! Somebody put it there ! " came a 
 startling cry. 
 
 " Silence ! " said the dominie sternly. " Does con- 
 science, Mr. Scrymegeour, thus make a coward of 
 you? What know you of this poor man, Horney- 
 craft?" 
 
 " I never saw the man before ! " screamed Giles 
 Scrymegeour. 
 
 " Which is palpably a falsehood," said the dominie 
 calmly. " I take note of these remarks, sir." The 
 dominie then looked toward the receiver of wrecks, 
 who was too dumfounded to act. " The duties of the 
 receiver of wrecks having been discharged, I shall 
 now take my seat, with the receiver's permission, as 
 a king's magistrate, and begin hearing in the name 
 of his majesty." 
 
 Old Cookson stepped down like a bewildered man. 
 The dominie went to the moderator's table, and took 
 the vacant place. 
 
 " Is the young man known as Smuggle-erie in 
 court? Stand up and, in the name of God, I adjure 
 you to speak the truth ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir ! In the name of God and manhood, 
 I'll tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth ! " 
 [226]
 
 Grizel to the Rescue 
 
 said Smuggle-erie, standing up by the table and 
 raising his hand. 
 
 And he told it, beginning at the beginning, when 
 Giles Scrymegeour fed him on bread and water, be- 
 cause " he said h$ took me out of the workhouse." 
 He told how he had been made a smuggler, and 
 how he had been saved by the master of the Thistle 
 Down from being " drowned off the Bull Rock like 
 a blind kitten," at the instigation of Giles Scryme- 
 geour. He admitted that Captain Grant and the 
 Thistle Down had " done a little smuggling now and 
 then like the best of them," but he also made it clear 
 that most of the profits had gone to Giles Scryme- 
 geour. He admitted that they had taken the barrel 
 containing Horneycraft's body aboard the schooner, 
 but denied that either he or any man of the schooner 
 (with the exception of the Red Mole and Archibald) 
 had known that it contained anything but whisky. 
 " Illicit, your honor. I swore to tell the truth ! " 
 Least of all, said Smuggle-erie, had Captain John 
 Grant been privy to the matter. It was to have 
 been the last trip, for Captain Grant had sworn 
 to turn over a page and stop smuggling, for his 
 daughter's sake. He had been forced into this last 
 business by Giles Scrymegeour, who had threatened 
 to tell Grizel Grant that her father was a smuggler. 
 Of this, Smuggle-erie said, he could not speak of his 
 own knowledge, but only by what the girl's father 
 [227]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 had told him in the presence of Giles Scrymegeour 
 and several of the Thistle Down's men. 
 
 The dominie, at this point, whispered to one of 
 the villagers, who promptly tiptoed out of the 
 room. 
 
 Smuggle-erie then told of the captain's behavior 
 aboard the Thistle Down, prior to the finding of the 
 body. There was hardly a dry eye in court when 
 Smuggle-erie, in a voice and manner which betrayed 
 either great emotion or great histrionic power, de- 
 scribed the opening of the barrel and the proposed 
 burial, not forgetting the men with their Sunday 
 clothes and Bibles, and the captain saying " a bit 
 prayer." The confession of the Red Mole, which 
 he had not overlooked, he repeated for emphasis' sake 
 at the end of his narrative. 
 
 When Smuggle-erie had answered a few questions 
 relative to the bringing of the barrel aboard the 
 Thistle Down, he was allowed to sit down. He was 
 no sooner in his seat than old Jack Cookson suddenly 
 found his voice and jumped to his feet. 
 
 " Your honor, sir ! " he cried to the dominie, the 
 tears hanging on his cheeks, " it don't seem quite 
 right for the coast-guard, and an old sailor that 
 has served the king and Nelson and his country 
 God bless 'em all ! to stand up and defend any such 
 rapscalliousness as smuggling " 
 
 " One moment, coast-guard," said the dominie. 
 [228]
 
 Grizel to the Rescue 
 
 " We will leave smuggling out of the matter, except 
 so far as it touches upon the first question murder ! " 
 A whisper flew among the crew of the schooner, 
 and admiring eyes flashed upon Smuggle-erie. 
 
 " Aye, aye, sir ! You know the law, by thunder, 
 and it ain't for me to gainsay you on any p'int," 
 said Cookson, apparently quite relieved. " That 
 bein' the case, I'm freer to speak, sir. And there's 
 several p'ints that I can clear up, in the absence of 
 my adm'ral (what's sick abed), and which he told 
 to me. 
 
 " In the fust place ! " he cried, gathering breath 
 like a rising tempest, " if, as this blame red-headed 
 man swears, Horneycraft was took aboard the 
 schooner, or found there and murdered without 
 quarter, what I want to know is why in thunder 
 did they bring him back, when they could ha' buried 
 him at sea? Was that the act of murderers? " 
 
 The coast-guard glared around to see what effect 
 that had. The point scored heavily, to judge by 
 the suppressed murmur. Encouraged, Jack Cookson 
 continued : 
 
 " If, as this red-headed man says, they murdered 
 Mr. Horneycraft because he was the revenue collector 
 and knew too much 
 
 " One moment," the dominie interrupted. " He 
 did not say so, my friend." 
 
 " Well, he meant that, anyway ! " roared Cookson. 
 
 [229]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " I'm not strong on book-larnin', but I know what 
 I'm saying." 
 
 " Go on," said the dominie, smiling his apprecia- 
 tion. 
 
 " If they murdered him on the night the Thistle 
 Down sailed and it ain't likely it was before, 'cause 
 this here man says they done it on the ship why 
 didn't they put Adm'ral Ben Larkin in a barrel, too ? 
 Hey? They knocked him over the head that night, 
 and tied 'im up. And, by thunder! here's a witness 
 can prove every blame word of that, if she'll only 
 talk!" 
 
 There had been a little rustle of excitement while 
 Cookson was speaking and, at the finish of his second 
 point, Grizel walked into the important council. She 
 was pale, but calm, and walked straight to the 
 moderator's table with her eyes lowered and her hands 
 clasped before her. The dominie smiled an assuring 
 welcome and, after a moment's whispering, seated 
 her in a chair at his side. After the little excitement 
 had abated, Jack Cookson resumed. 
 
 " Thirdly ! " he bellowed, " I happen to know by 
 thunder, that Mr. Horneycraft had been missing 
 four days before the schooner sailed ! " 
 
 This point also scored heavily at the moment, 
 
 although those who remember the details of the great 
 
 Heather Bloom case, in Edinburgh, will recall that 
 
 it was thrown out, it being established conclusively; 
 
 [230]
 
 Grizel to the Rescue 
 
 that the murdered Horneycraft was seen thirty-six 
 hours before the Thistle Down sailed. 
 
 " And fourthly," concluded Cookson, " I happen 
 to know, and the adm'ral will bear witness to't, 
 that on the night the Thistle Down sailed half a 
 hundred barrels came from Cothouse Inn, which, as 
 everybody knows, is run by this red-haired man." 
 
 " Thank you," said the dominie. " I think it 
 should be easy to prove where the barrel came from. 
 The evidence of the lieutenant, coupled with the evi- 
 dence of the crew of the Thistle Down " 
 
 " Why should it ? " Giles Scrymegeour suddenly 
 squeaked. " Why should it prove anything ? And 
 what have I got to do with that, anyway? The 
 whole bang-jing o' them is conspirin' agin Baldy 
 Currie. He says he saw them do it. Is that not 
 enough? " 
 
 " Pardon me," said the dominie sweetly ; " I had 
 quite forgotten that you were here, Mr. Scrymegeour. 
 I thank you for the reminder. In a matter of this 
 kind we accuse none until all is heard. I do not 
 even accuse you of complicity in the matter. Is 
 there anything you wish to say? " 
 
 Giles scrambled to his feet, and his little rheumy 
 eyes peered around the room in search of a friendly 
 face. There was not one, but there was also none 
 that he saw any logical reason to fear greatly. 
 
 They were smugglers, all of them, and he had 
 [231]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 taken care to conduct his matters with a view to 
 wriggling out in such an emergency. The smuggling 
 part of it was not serious, to his mind. He was a 
 merchant, he assured himself, and surely there was 
 nothing wrong in taking a little profit when it came 
 his way. What had he to do with the Thistle Down 
 and its comings and goings, save to buy what was 
 offered him and pay the price? He was no keeper 
 of other folks' consciences. He was safe! He was 
 safe, so long as the Red Mole and Archibald stood 
 by him. And they dared not speak, or their own 
 necks would stiffen in a rope. 
 
 Of course, it was a great pity that the body had 
 not been landed in England, for then it might never 
 have been traced back ; and if it had been why, then, 
 it came from a smuggler ship whose captain was the 
 notorious Heather Bloom. Thus Old Scryme could 
 have wriggled out quite easily. And, of course, they 
 had been great fools not to bury the body at sea. 
 Who would have believed they would bring the body 
 back? Yet they had brought the body back. Ah, 
 there it was ! There it was ! 
 
 Giles Scrymegeour suddenly woke up, and found 
 Smuggle-erie's eye fixed upon him. Ah! There it 
 was ! The miser dashed his hand across his face. 
 It was wet. It surprised him, for what he had tried 
 to brush away was the memory of Smuggle-erie's 
 father, whom he had ruined, and the echo of Smuggle- 
 [232]
 
 Grizel to the Rescue 
 
 erie's promise that he would be the death of him 
 some day. 
 
 " Have you nothing to say? " he heard the dom- 
 inie's voice ask. " You are merely delaying the pro- 
 ceedings." 
 
 Had he nothing to say? Had he said nothing? 
 Had he been standing there in a trance all this time? 
 Giles Scrymegeour tried to speak, but all he could 
 stammer was: 
 
 " I have nothing to say. I ken nothing at all 
 aboot it. It's a conspiracy, I tell ye. They owed 
 me money. Who is this Heather Bloom? I dinna 
 ken what what " 
 
 He sat down stupidly, and began to moisten his 
 lips with his tongue. Then he heard a voice far 
 away and sweet. He presently recovered, and found 
 that it was Grizel Grant who was speaking. What 
 was she doing here? What did she know about the 
 business? What could she say? What was she 
 saying? Then his heart gave a great leap and he 
 sat staring at the pale girl, standing before him 
 like an avenging angel. 
 
 Gri/el Grant told her story briefly and calmly. 
 She said that she had come there at the request of 
 the dominie, and with the consent of her father. 
 Until a few days before she had not known that her 
 father was a smuggler. She was sorry, of course, 
 to hear it, but she knew that her father was a good 
 [233]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 man, nevertheless, because, when she had told him 
 that she knew, he had promised to begin life over 
 again, for her sake. That was on the night the 
 Thistle Down sailed. 
 
 On the previous night, she said, she had been 
 standing with Lieutenant Ben Larkin at the gate of 
 her father's cottage. It was very late. It may have 
 been morning. They had just come from the har- 
 vest-home, she added hurriedly. Through the open 
 parlor window she had overheard her father and Mr. 
 Scrymegeour in conversation. From this conversa- 
 tion, which Grizel repeated, it was made clear to 
 the dominie that the miser was the mainspring of 
 the smugglers, and had coerced Heather Bloom. 
 
 " You are positive that Lieutenant Larkin heard 
 and understood the significance of what was said ? " 
 asked the dominie gently, while Giles Scrymegeour 
 stared blankly at the girl. 
 
 " I I am positive," Grizel stammered, a wave of 
 red crossing her cheeks. " I know he understood. 
 
 " Next evening I met the lieutenant by the castle 
 gate," Grizel bravely continued. " I was about to 
 speak to him, when he was attacked by a number of 
 men." 
 
 " Who were they ? You must tell me that," said 
 the dominie. 
 
 Grizel's eyes fell to the ground. It was the last 
 strand between her and Smuggle-erie, and the heart 
 [234]
 
 Grizel to the Rescue 
 
 of the woman lingered with it. But Smuggle-erie 
 himself came to the rescue. 
 
 " Here, sir ! " he cried. " I was the leader ! 
 Talk up, lads! Hands up, who were there?" 
 
 " Me ! " " Me, too ! " And me ! " cried a dozen 
 voices, and as many hands went aloft. 
 
 " Tut, tut ! Bless my soul ! I never heard the 
 like ! " cried the dominie, forgetting his dignity in 
 his admiration. " But, tell me, child. What were 
 you doing with the lieutenant at the castle gate? 
 Had he asked you to meet him, for I cannot believe 
 that hmm hmm " 
 
 As the dominie broke off, confused, a cunning 
 smile appeared on Giles Scrymegeour's face, and the 
 smile spread into an evil grin when Grizel was unable 
 to answer. 
 
 " There ! " cried the miser shrilly. " Heather 
 Bloom's lass. A conspiracy, I tell ye ! " 
 
 " Don't listen to that shrimp ! " cried Smuggle- 
 erie, jumping to his feet. " I'll tell ye what she was 
 doing there." 
 
 Grizel cast a swift glance at Smuggle-erie, whether 
 of reproach or gratitude, it would be hard to say. 
 Smuggle-erie replied with a flash of determination, 
 and spoke up. When the truth was out, he sat 
 down, very red in the face, and studied the toes 
 of his sea-boots. The dominie nodded his head ap- 
 provingly. 
 
 [235]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " It was a brave man who spoke that confession," 
 he said. " I believe every word of it." 
 
 Grizel resumed her narrative. 
 
 " Afterward they carried the lieutenant to the 
 gardener's lodge," she said. " They took me there, 
 also. No, they did not tie me up. By and by 
 it must have been some hours a cart came to the 
 door and the men I have named began to bring in 
 a lot of kegs, which they lowered through a hole in 
 the floor. The Red Mole, and that other man with 
 him, were there. I remember that distinctly, because 
 the others had a quarrel with them." 
 
 " What was the quarrel about, Miss Grant? " asked 
 the dominie. 
 
 " About two things. First, there was a big barrel, 
 bigger than the rest, and Smuggle-erie asked the 
 Red Mole what they meant by sending whisky in 
 a barrel the size of a ship. That was the way he 
 put it." 
 
 " Stop a minute, my dear," said the dominie 
 shrewdly. " It pains me to have to ask you to look 
 at this barrel. Never mind what is in it. Just 
 look at the outside of the barrel, for that was all 
 you could have seen. Is this the same barrel? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Grizel, bravely facing the barrel. 
 
 " Thank you, my child," said the dominie. " I 
 think that will do now and you may go home to 
 your father. I hope he is better." 
 [236]
 
 Grizel to the Rescue 
 
 " Thank you," she said. Then she burst out sud- 
 denly : " Oh, no, no ! There is something else I must 
 tell you." 
 
 " Indeed? " said the dominie, surprised. 
 
 " Yes, I must tell you. They quarreled about 
 the lieutenant. When all was ready they took and 
 carried him into the woods and left him there with 
 me. But before that this man," and she pointed 
 straight at the Red Mole, who cowered before the 
 accusing finger, " wanted to put him in the boat 
 and drown him, so that it would appear that he had 
 met with an accident." 
 
 " It's a lie ! It's a lie ! " yelled the Red Mole. 
 
 " It's true ! It's true ! " shouted Smuggle-erie, 
 and a score of smugglers yelled corroboration. 
 
 " Silence ! " roared Cookson. 
 
 " Yes, it is true ! " cried Grizel. " I would not 
 tell a lie even to save my father. But that man said 
 it was the best thing to do, and that it was what Old 
 Scryme would have wanted." 
 
 The uproar that followed was terrific. The 
 smugglers yelled. Cookson roared. The dominie 
 stood up with his long, white hand raised in protest. 
 Giles Scrymegeour was writhing on the floor, his 
 eyes starting and his mouth chewing and chewing. 
 Then, out of all the hubbub and confusion rushed a 
 man with fiery red hair, who flung himself on his knees 
 before the moderator's table and pleaded for mercy. 
 [237]
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 EXODUS ! 
 
 THE news that was broken to Larkin, bit by bit, 
 almost made him believe that he was still in the land 
 of delirium. In the first place, Horneycraft was 
 dead, and it had been his body in the barrel which 
 he had been chasing. 
 
 The Red Mole had confessed to the murder. He 
 had turned evidence against himself, his son, and 
 Giles Scrymegeour on the schooner; then he had 
 pretended that he had done so only to save himself 
 from the smugglers ; and, finally, a chance shot from 
 the quiver of a truthful girl had left him with the 
 option of turning king's evidence or having the 
 whole crime upon his own shoulders. He had turned 
 king's evidence. 
 
 Now he was in jail. So also was his sulky son, 
 the man who had struck the blow. So also was 
 Giles Scrymegeour, the man who had formulated the 
 cunning idea of shipping the body on the Thistle 
 Down. So also was Smuggle-erie, Grogblossom, and 
 the schooner's crew. Heather Bloom, a lion shorn 
 of his strength, lay sick unto death in the cottage 
 [238]
 
 Exodus! 
 
 with the flagstaff, and the only man who had escaped 
 the reckoning was the laird. Well, nobody wanted 
 him. The laird had been only a tool. 
 
 Smuggle-erie's behavior had been an enigma to 
 Larkin as he first pondered over it. Larkin was now 
 master of the situation for all practical purposes, 
 but in his own heart he suffered the humiliation of 
 the knowledge that it was Smuggle-erie who was 
 the victor. With his shrewd foresight, the young 
 smuggler had seen the upshot of the murder, as 
 it affected the smugglers, and had seized the bull 
 by the horns in a manner that took the lieutenant's 
 breath away. 
 
 And Grizel? Larkin sighed. She could not but 
 compare the actions of either; and anyway, he re- 
 flected, even if Smuggle-erie had not shown himself 
 to be the greater man of the two, Larkin had wrought 
 enough damage in the girl's life to preclude any idea 
 of forgiveness this side of eternity. 
 
 Aside from Larkin, the thing was a nine-days' 
 wonder in the world, but before one of the nine had 
 expired another sensation was mixed in the whirl of 
 events. And it was the nature of that sensation 
 which set all Scotland by the ears and wafted popular 
 prejudice to the side of the smugglers at the great 
 Edinburgh trial. All the world loves a daredevil, 
 especially when his recklessness comes strictly within 
 the bounds of fair fight. 
 
 [239]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 When the dominie ordered that Giles Scrymegeour 
 and his accomplices be locked up in the coast-guard 
 station, he found himself confronted by a delicate 
 problem. The dominie felt that it was his duty to 
 place Smuggle-erie and his companions under tem- 
 porary restraint. Heather Bloom, of course, was 
 incapable of attempting to escape from the meshes 
 of the law. But, unfortunately, there was no jail 
 in Morag of sufficient dimensions to accommodate 
 the number who were involved in the affair. And 
 the whole crew of the Thistle Down was a force to 
 be reckoned with. 
 
 The dominie finally offered Smuggle-erie and his 
 men their temporary freedom on parole. Smuggle- 
 erie, as spokesman for the crew, declined the offer. 
 Speaking for himself, he would be permanently free 
 at any cost if he saw a chance to wriggle out of 
 the mess. The only bond that he would recognize 
 was his duty to Heather Bloom. 
 
 The dominie, in despair, was compelled to borrow 
 the burgh hall from the kirk elders, and here the 
 smugglers spent their first night of imprisonment 
 with song and story and dancing, much to the amuse- 
 ment of the Morag folk and the horror of the kirk 
 elders. The latter worthies, in fact, threatened to 
 revoke the permission and would have let the jail 
 loose had it not been for the soothing influence of 
 the dominie, who promised that arrangements would 
 [240]
 
 Exodus! 
 
 be made for the conveyance of the smugglers to 
 Dunoon, the nearest prison town. In the meantime 
 Jack Cookson, with six armed men, was placed as 
 guardian of the jail. 
 
 On the following night, shortly before midnight, 
 the door of the cottage with the flagstaff softly 
 opened and someone stepped into the parlor. Grizel, 
 who had been sitting up with her father, heard the 
 footsteps and timorously went to investigate. She 
 found someone sitting by the low fire in the open 
 hearth. 
 
 " Smuggle-erie ! " she gasped. 
 
 " It's me, Grizel," said he simply. 
 
 " But how did you get here? How did you get 
 out o' the jail? " 
 
 "The jail?" he echoed with a laugh. "Lifted 
 the back window and dropped out. Cookson was 
 telling his men about Trafalgar." 
 
 " But but the others? " she stammered. " Sure- 
 
 ly- -" 
 
 " All aboard the Thistle Down by this time," he 
 said. " I'll join them after I've had my talk with 
 you." 
 
 She stared at him for a moment, her face flushed 
 with admiration and her bosom heaving with the 
 excitement of her thoughts. Then the quick alarm 
 sprang into her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, lad, lad! What have ye done? " she cried. 
 [241]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Stolen the ship," he said quietly. " We'll put 
 to sea before dawn. Then good-by, Smuggle-erie. 
 Lass, have I done my duty? Am I as bad as ye 
 thought?" 
 
 " No," she said, sitting down on the rug and 
 gazing thoughtfully into the fire. " Ye've done 
 wonders, lad. But my poor father! It's like ye 
 were leaving him alone." 
 
 "How is he?" 
 
 " He's awake and knowing me," she said. " The 
 dominie says he'll get well again." She suddenly 
 burst into tears. *' Oh, Smuggle-erie, I almost wish 
 he'd died." 
 
 " Come, lass. Cheer up ! " whispered Smuggle-erie, 
 bending over the crumpled little figure on the rug. 
 " We've made it as safe for him as mortal men could. 
 For myself I'd stay ye ken I'd stay, but there's 
 others to think o', and forbye that, lass, although 
 we're goin' to disappear like magic, never fear but 
 Smuggle-erie'll be nigh Edinburgh when the time 
 comes, and ye'll find me at your shoulder if I'm 
 needed to say a word more than I've done." 
 
 " Aye, aye," she said. There was silence for a 
 minute. Then she said softly : " Smuggle-erie, ye 
 forgive me? " 
 
 " Forgive ye for what ? " he laughed, but with a 
 little catch in his throat. " Forgive ye for not 
 wantin' to marry a hereawa', thereawa', wanderin' 
 [242 ]
 
 Exodus! 
 
 Willie like me? No, lass, I wouldn't marry ye if 
 ye asked me on your bended knees. I love ye too 
 much." 
 
 Her only answer was a sob. 
 
 " I have a notion, lass, that maybe you think you 
 love me a wee bit, after a'," he went on earnestly. 
 "But ye'll forget that, Grizel. As for me, I ken 
 myself better than anybody. I'd make ye happy for 
 a month or two, maybe, and then I'd be off again. 
 There's only one bride for Smuggle-erie, lass. It's 
 the sea, because she's as changefu' and fickle as 
 himsel'." 
 
 "No, I don't believe it!" she gulped out. "I 
 will never believe it ! " 
 
 " Come, lass," he said huskily. " Ye'll surely no 
 come courtin' me like that. Are ye as fickle as me, 
 to be f orgettin' your love so soon ? " It was a 
 moment of peril for them both, but he conquered. 
 " Come, lass ! " he said sharply. " Time's short and 
 there's danger. Show me to your father." 
 
 She led the way in silence. She would have en- 
 tered the sick-room, but he waved her back and the 
 door close^ upon the two men. What passed between 
 them none but God and themselves know. 
 
 Grizel returned to the hearth. She knelt down 
 
 and buried her face in her hands. What she felt 
 
 and thought it would be indiscreet to ask. All the 
 
 mysteries of a woman's heart were moving in the 
 
 [243]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 deep waters. In that moment Larkin's happiness 
 was perilously near the vortex. The old sense of 
 hero-worship which she felt in Smuggle-erie's pres- 
 ence lay upon her now like a twilight glamour. If 
 he had spoken the word who knows? 
 
 In a little while the door of the sick-room opened. 
 She heard a voice her father's : 
 
 " Good-by, and God be with you on the wide seas, 
 lad. Ye've been a good friend." 
 
 Then the door closed, and he stood once more 
 beside her. 
 
 " Good-by, lass." 
 
 " Good-by Smuggle-erie." 
 
 He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked 
 down into her face. She met his eyes, but hers were 
 clouded with brimming tears and her lips quivered. 
 From somewhere outside, faint and subtle, came a 
 few bars of an old tune. 
 
 " That's Grogblossom," he whispered. " Some- 
 thing wrong." His brows knitted. " Kiss me, lass 
 just once for old sake's sake." 
 
 She kissed him. It was no mere propitiatory 
 salute. It was a kiss the one secret she ever kept 
 from her husband. 
 
 Again the whistle sounded. Smuggle-erie opened 
 the front door and stepped out. Grizel stood behind 
 him, silhouetted against the light within. A gruff 
 voice hailed through the darkness : 
 [244]
 
 Exodus! 
 
 " Halt, in the king's name ! " 
 
 " Go to the devil ! " retorted Smuggle-erie. 
 
 Next minute he was running toward the beach, 
 with the coast-guard panting at his heels. And as 
 he ran he chuckled mightily to himself, for a thunder- 
 ous voice was bellowing through the night: 
 
 46 The jail's out, by thunder! " 
 
 Smuggle-erie cut away to the right and doubled 
 back to his tracks. Then he paused for a moment 
 and looked around him. The Thistle Down swung 
 at her moorings. To his straining ears came the 
 creaking of blocks and tackle. They were making 
 sail. If only they would weigh anchor. How was 
 he to warn them ? Would they hear the coast-guard's 
 voice ? 
 
 Again a voice challenged him to stop in the name 
 of King George. Smuggle-erie laughingly retorted 
 and shot away to the left. The scene somehow stirred 
 memories that were distant, yet close to his heart. 
 There was a bit of a haze on the sea, and it threatened 
 to deepen into a first wintry fog. The Gantock 
 bell had just clanged for the first time in months. 
 Presently the fog-horn would raise its voice in the 
 
 matter and The spirit of the thing suddenly 
 
 swept over his soul, just as it had done years before, 
 when he ran through the night, in his bare feet, with 
 his shoes in his half-frozen hand. 
 
 " Halt, in the name of the king ! " cried a voice. 
 [245 ]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " Smuggle-erie! " he yelled, almost in response to 
 an instinct. 
 
 There came a sudden report of a horse-pistol. 
 Smuggle-erie darted on unscathed. 
 
 " Good ! " he muttered. " That'll warn them." 
 
 Then the idea possessed him that he could divert 
 attention until the schooner could up anchor and 
 away. For himself he had ceased to think. Grizel 
 was in his heart, and youth was in his memory. He 
 had no desire to leave Morag. There was only one 
 place in the world Morag; only one girl Grizel; 
 only one game " smuggle-erie." The mist deep- 
 ened. The houses loomed through it like Druidic 
 circles. He could hear the patter of feet on all sides. 
 
 " Halt, in the name of the king ! " 
 
 " Smuggle-erie! " And he darted away in another 
 direction with the whole guard pell-mell at his heels. 
 
 A flash of fire split the fog and the report of a 
 firearm echoed dully in the night; the Gantock bell 
 clanged monotonously on the mid-reef; and now the 
 cow of the fog-horn bellowed and was answered by 
 the calf of the fog-horn. It somehow stirred another 
 memory, and he found himself running toward the 
 Bull Rock. But he checked himself. 
 
 " Not that way," he muttered, and struck off to 
 the north. 
 
 Once he heard the coast-guards shouting excitedly 
 to one another. A pang of remorse seized his heart. 
 [246]
 
 Exodus! 
 
 That would be Grogblossom! He had almost for- 
 gotten him. But it was just as well. He'd bear 
 witness for the old skipper. He wetted his finger 
 and held it aloft. 
 
 "No wind!" he exclaimed. "But they'll drift 
 with the tide and no boat'll find them in this fog." 
 
 He saw a dim light ahead of him, but failed to 
 recognize it. In order to get his bearings straight, 
 he ran toward it. All at once the fog broke before 
 him and a dozen figures loomed up like giants. 
 
 " Halt, in the name of the king ! " came the com- 
 mand. 
 
 " Let the king catch me ! " was the retort. 
 
 " Fire ! " cried a voice. 
 
 Smuggle-erie saw the world blaze red for an 
 instant and felt a sharp pain in his back, followed 
 by a strange dullness all over his body. He tried 
 to run, but his legs failed him. 
 
 "Shot!" he ejaculated. "Pity! The world- 
 was good." He dropped on one knee, then fell 
 forward on his face. 
 
 They carried him to the house with the light. 
 It was the coast-guard station. They laid him on 
 the settle, and all at once old Jack Cookson burst 
 into tears. 
 
 " I d-done my dooty ! " he blubbered. " An' see 
 what's come upon me." 
 
 [247]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " It's all right, sir," said one of the men. " You 
 didn't fire, sir." 
 
 " Who did ? " snorted the coast-guard, blazing up 
 in a sudden rage. 
 
 Alas ! so many shots had been fired that none could 
 plead not guilty, nor acknowledge guilt, for that 
 matter. 
 
 " You run for the dominie, ye swab ! " said Cook- 
 son to one of the men. " If that man dies, there'll 
 be a better man than you gone." 
 
 But Smuggle-erie was wounded to the death. He 
 suddenly opened his eyes and they could see the pain 
 in them. His face was strangely white under the 
 surface tan of his skin. He closed his jaws for a 
 moment, then relaxed them and spoke as clearly as 
 of yore, and in the same spirited tones. 
 
 " Bring the adm'ral," he said. " Hurry ! He's 
 no worse'n I am." 
 
 A few minutes later Ben Larkin came through the 
 open door of the room, leaning heavily on the coast- 
 guard as he walked. He reached Smuggle-erie's side 
 and knelt down. Smuggle-erie held out his hand. 
 
 " Shake hands, mate," he said. The two gripped 
 hands. " Whisper ! " said Smuggle-erie, after a bit. 
 Larkin bent his head and caught the words. " Be 
 good to the lass. She's a damned sight too good 
 for me, and you're not half good enough for 
 her." 
 
 [248]
 
 Exodus! 
 
 " I know it, lad," Larkin managed to gulp out, 
 " but to have known you to have known you " 
 
 The pleased smile of a spoiled child crossed 
 Smuggle-erie's face. He looked up in Ben Larkin's 
 eyes and grinned the old mischievous grin. 
 
 " I beat ye ! " he chuckled, and turned his face 
 to the wall. 
 
 When the dominie came Smuggle-erie was dead. 
 When the dawn came the Thistle Down, also, had 
 vanished. 
 
 [249]
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WITH the death of Smuggle-erie, it is hardly worth 
 writing further. A light has gone out that nothing 
 can rekindle or imitate. But it is only after the 
 death of Smuggle-erie that the story begins, as far 
 as public knowledge of it goes. 
 
 It is not necessary, to those who know the true 
 facts of the case, to go into the details of the great 
 trial in Edinburgh which ended in the condemnation 
 of Giles Scrymegeour, the Red Mole, and his son, 
 Archibald, and the acquittal of Captain John Grant. 
 But a fitting farewell to the people of this tale may 
 be taken in some opinions of my lord advocate in 
 presenting the case to the jury. 
 
 " In considering the testimony of the coast-guard," 
 said his lordship with a smile, " it would be wise to 
 remember that most of it is hearsay, or biased by 
 personal views and idiosyncrasies." 
 
 Grogblossom came in for more complimentary 
 mention from the great man. 
 
 " The evidence of the extremely unhappy person 
 known as Grogblossom," said the lord advocate, 
 [250]
 
 " In Conclusion, Gentlemen " 
 
 " should not be undervalued. The almost painful 
 realism of his narrative and the man's evident dis- 
 tress in telling of his experiences leave little room 
 for doubt as to his truthfulness, even in extreme 
 details. 
 
 " It is difficult for me to advise you regarding 
 John Grant, the master of the schooner which was 
 afterward stolen. There seems to have been no 
 attempt made by either side to conceal the fact 
 that he is the notorious Heather Bloom. Gentlemen," 
 said the lord advocate pointedly, " we are not trying 
 a case of smugglery. I would strongly impress that 
 upon your minds. But you must also consider the 
 character and past of the man in order to determine 
 in what degree, if any, he was privy to this crime. 
 The defense has told you of the man's pathetic repent- 
 ance, and although it is common to hear of the con- 
 victed sinner that repenteth, in the interests of justice 
 I would have you remember that this unhappy man's 
 repentance was prior to the murder. If you decide 
 in your minds that the man Grant had no knowledge 
 of the murder, the fact that he is a notorious 
 smuggler must not weigh with your judgment. He 
 must be acquitted of the charge of murder." 
 
 Speaking of Giles Scrymegeour, it was apparent 
 from the judge's remarks that the miser's pitiable 
 condition in court had not affected his lordship in 
 the least. 
 
 [251]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 " It is because I consider the honorable jury above 
 suspicion, above malice, and above prejudice," said 
 he, " that I make free with my opinion of this per- 
 son. Throughout the whole trial I have heard say- 
 ings and observed traits which reveal the innate virtue 
 in the worst of those involved. Yet of this man I 
 have heard nothing, observed nothing, imagined noth- 
 ing which might be called a virtue. I have seen no 
 grain or strain of the human, save that he has a weak 
 heart. But what he lacks in physique the two 
 creatures who were his accomplices lack in brains. 
 The one is no less deserving of blame than the others 
 are deserving of pity." 
 
 Later my lord advocate lowered his tone to a softer 
 strain. 
 
 " In the matter of the woman," said he, " I must 
 warn you against the natural sentiment which the 
 narrative of Grizel Grant must have stirred in your 
 hearts, but you should consider with cool judg- 
 ment that if any special motive inspired her on 
 behalf of the smugglers, there were other facts 
 which would have as readily discouraged her 
 from the admirable stand which she had taken. 
 I do not think, gentlemen, that I need be more 
 explicit." 
 
 On going into the details of Ben Larkin's track- 
 ing of the barrels to the Cothouse Inn, and the evi- 
 dence which was adduced that the unfortunate Hor- 
 [252]
 
 He raised his eyes to hers and held out his hand
 
 " In Conclusion, Gentlemen " 
 
 neycraft had last been seen in the vicinity of the 
 inn, the lord advocate said : 
 
 " The path of the honorable lieutenant has cer- 
 tainly been strewn with thorns. It is a matter for 
 congratulation that he has come before us with evi- 
 dence of his duty well discharged, his honor untainted, 
 and his health practically unimpaired." 
 
 Smuggle-erie lay in the kirkyard at Morag, but 
 so persistently had the ghost of the man haunted 
 the great trial-room that the lord advocate could not 
 but mention him in passing. 
 
 " It is a great pity," said he, " that neither side 
 has been able to bring forward as a witness the man 
 known as Smuggle-erie. The person who put about 
 ship and sailed back into Morag with such damning 
 evidence aboard and that when there was a simpler 
 course was a man of great moral courage, despite 
 the fact that, in most matters, he lacked morality. 
 His statement made in the jail at Morag and under 
 oath should be accepted by you as if he were alive 
 and in the witness-box before you." 
 
 This charge to the jury created something of a 
 sensation in court. The lord advocate must have 
 seen it out of the corner of his eye, for he added with 
 a surprising amount of spirit for one so staid and 
 solemn : 
 
 " Personally, I should believe the word of one dead 
 Smuggle-erie against the bonds of a dozen Scryme- 
 [253]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 geours. If it should happen, gentlemen, that your 
 judgment should coincide with my private opinion 
 of the merits of the case, I think the credit would 
 be due, neither to counsel, court, nor jury, but, first, 
 to the incontrovertible Truth, and second to the all- 
 pervading and posthumous genius of this human 
 anomaly, Smuggle-erie ! " 
 
 It will be observed that the laird was the only one 
 left out. As a matter of fact, when it was discovered 
 that he had fled to Canada his connection with the 
 case was only worthy of mention. Morag Castle 
 is an untenanted ruin to this day, Richard Halliday 
 never having returned to claim what was never really 
 his own. Like the Thistle Down and those who stole 
 the schooner, he dropped out of human ken at the 
 moment of disappearing, never to be heard of again. 
 
 Giles Scrymegeour never came to the gibbet. 
 Strictly speaking, he came to the foot of it, and 
 when they picked him up he was dead of heart-failure. 
 The Red Mole's sentence was commuted to penal 
 servitude, in view of his confession. As for Archi- 
 bald, it is still told of him that when he stood by 
 the gallows and was asked if he had anything to 
 say, he turned with a smile and actually said: 
 
 " No." 
 
 The charge of smugglery was never brought 
 against Captain Grant, for reasons that were more 
 of sentiment than of law. On the last point, how-
 
 ff In Conclusion, Gentlemen " 
 
 ever, the case was weak. With Grizel, he retired to 
 the cottage with the flagstaff, went to kirk twice 
 every Sunday, and spent his evenings beside the little 
 harmonium in the parlor, or chatting with the old 
 dominie and the heroic coast-guard. 
 
 After the disorganization of the smugglers, Lieu- 
 tenant Ben Larkin accepted service in the Mediter- 
 ranean. The last days in Morag had convinced him 
 that Grizel's love was all buried with Smuggle-erie. 
 During the trial he had seen her constantly and with 
 greater regret for his own love. They had never 
 spoken, and when their eyes met over the heads in 
 court, as they sometimes did, she quickly averted hers. 
 And in time the wide seas separated them. 
 
 It was something like an accident that brought 
 them together again, two years later, although the 
 word accident should be used advisedly in the matter 
 of love. Upon his return from the Mediterranean, 
 Ben Larkin went to Morag to pay his respects to 
 the dominie and the old coast-guard, and also the 
 scenes which had taken on the glamour of romance 
 from time and distance. And it was from Jack 
 Cookson that Ben got the first report on how the 
 wind blew. 
 
 Later the lieutenant strolled into Morag. Spring 
 was on the land, and something like it was reawaken- 
 ing in Ben's heart. The hedges were brushed with 
 [255]
 
 The Vanishing Smuggler 
 
 early green, and the first primroses were nestling 
 in the mossy eaves of the rocks. He walked into 
 the kirkyard, for there was something which should 
 be there, if Jack Cookson had obeyed Ben Larkin's 
 last command before he left Morag for Edinburgh. 
 There it was, a rude slab with rude lettering upon 
 it. Beside it was a girl with a trowel in her hand, 
 planting primroses. He knew who it was at once, 
 and the time and the place sent his heart surging 
 into his throat. She looked up as he approached, 
 and he noticed with wonder a sudden springing of 
 tears to her eyes. Hardly knowing what he was 
 doing, he stopped and looked at the stone. It was 
 just as he had wished it to be, rough and real, terse 
 and true: 
 
 Here Lies 
 SMUGGLE-ERIE 
 
 A Good Friend 
 
 A Splendid Enemy 
 
 1829 
 
 Then he raised his eyes to hers and held out his 
 hand. 
 
 THE END 
 
 [256]
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000039905 5