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Cutlass and Cudgel

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<h3>Chapter Thirty Two.</h3> Celia Graeme took sundry precautions to avoid being seen, but she was not so successful as she imagined. Jemmy Dadd was an old servant of Farmer Shackle, one who always made a point of doing as little as was possible about the farm. He did not mind loading a cart, if he were allowed as much time as he liked, or feeding the pigs, because it afforded him an opportunity to lean over the sty and watch the pretty creatures eat, while their grunting and squeaking was sweet music in his ear. He generally fed the horses, too, and watched them graze. Calling up the cows from the cliff pastures he did not mind, because cows walked slowly; and he did the milking because he could sit down and rest his head; but to thump a churn and make butter was out of his line. Mrs Shackle complained bitterly to her lord and master about different lots of cream being spoiled, but Farmer Shackle snubbed her. “Can’t expect a man to work night and day too,” he grunted. “Set one of the women to churn.” In fact, the farmer never found any fault with Jemmy, for the simple reason that he was his best worker on dark nights, and as handy a sailor as could be found. Jemmy knew it, felt that he was licensed, and laughed to himself as he followed his own bent, and spent a good deal of time every day in what he called seeing the crops grow. When there were no crops growing, he went to see how the grass was getting on, and to do this properly, he put a piece of hard black tobacco in his cheek, and went and lay down on one of the hill-slopes. He was seeing how the grass got on that particular morning with his eyes shut, when, happening to open them, he caught sight of Celia going along, a mile away, with her basket and dog. He knew her by the dog, though even at that distance, as she moved almost imperceptibly over the short turf of the treeless expanse along by the sea, he would have been sure that it was Sir Risdon’s child. “What’s the good of telling on her?” he growled to himself, as he lay back with his hands under his head; and in that attitude he rested for nearly three hours. Then, moved by the cogitations in which he had been indulging, he slowly and deliberately rose, something after the fashion of a cow, and began to go slowly in the direction taken by Celia hours before. Jemmy Dadd seemed to be going nowhere, and as he slouched along, lifting up one heavy sea boot and putting it down before the other, he never turned his head in either direction. So stiff was he in his movements, that any one who watched him would have concluded that he was looking straight forward, and that was all. A great mistake; for Jemmy, by long practice, had made his eyes work like a lobster’s, and, as he went on, they were rolling slowly round and round, taking in everything, keeping a look-out to sea, and watching the revenue cutter, sweeping the offing, running over the fields and downs and hollows, missing nothing, in short, as he steadily trudged along, not even the few mushrooms that the pleasant showers had brought up, and placing them in his hat. Slow as his pace was, the distance between the prints of the big boots was great, and the mushroom hunting took him, before very long, up the cliff beyond the entrance to the old quarry, then down below it, and then close up alongside, where he stooped over, and then went down a few steps out of sight. He did not turn his head, for his lobster eyes had convinced him that no one was in sight, and, as he disappeared in the deep hole, he pounced upon the basket, and then went softly and quickly down to where the loose tile stones lay. A rapid examination satisfied him that they had not been moved, and he went softly up again, basket in hand, stood still and rolled his eyes, but saw no sign of the basket’s owner, and then, thrusting his arm through the handle, he went steadily back to the farm, where he thrust his head in at the door, stared at Farmer Shackle, who was innocently mending a net, and backed out and went into the rough stable. Shackle followed him, net in one hand, wooden netting-needle in the other. “Hullo!” he said. Jemmy held out the basket. “Well, I see brambrys and masheroons. What of ’em?” “Little missus’s basket. Fun’ it.” “Take it home. No—I’ll send Ramillies. Ladyship don’t like to see you.” “Fun’ it in number one!” “What!” “See her going along there with that dog. She must ha’ smelled him out.” “Place been opened?” “No.” Farmer Shackle scratched his nose on both sides with the netting-needle; then he poked his red worsted cap a little on one side with the same implement, and scratched the top of his head, and carefully arranged the red cap again. “Mayn’t have seen or heard anything, lad.” “Must, or wouldn’t have left the basket.” “Right. Have big Tom Dunley, Badstock and two more, and be yonder at dark. Ramillies know?” “Not yet.” “Don’t tell him. He’s waiting yonder for you. Here he comes. Go on just as usual, and don’t tell him nothing. I’ll meet you soon as it’s dark.” “Pistols?” “No. Sticks.” “Jemmy there, father? Ah, there you are! Come on. I’ve been waiting such a time.” Ram looked sharply from one to the other, and knew there was something particular on the way, but he said nothing. “Get it out of Jemmy,” he said to himself. “I’m ready, lad; I’m ready.” “Look sharp, boy,” said the farmer. “Yes, father,” said Ram. “I’ll go and get the basket.” “Ay, do, boy. And look here—never mind more to-day; but take double ’lowance to-morrow, so as not to go every day.” “Very well, father. Look sharp, Jemmy!” The boy ran back to the house, followed by his father, who went on netting, and a minute later Jemmy and Ram were off over the bare pastures in the direction from which the man had come. “Find that basket you give to father, Jemmy?” “Ay, lad, half full o’ brambrys and masheroons. Wondered whose it was. Gaffer says it’s little missus’s, and you’re to take it up.” “Oh,” thought Ram, “that’s what they were talking about;” and he began whistling, quite content, as they went wandering about mushrooming, till, apparently tired, they sat down close to the mouth of the quarry, where Jemmy’s eyes rolled round for a good ten minutes before he said, “Now.” Then the pair rolled over to left and right, down into the hole, and descended quickly to the bottom, where the man crept right on along the half choked passage, took a lanthorn from a great crevice; there was the nicking of flint and steel, a faint blue light, and the snap of the closing lanthorn as the dark passage showed a yellow glow. Meanwhile Ram had been busy removing the pieces of stone, laying bare a trap-door upon which were a big wooden lock and a couple of bolts. These he unfastened, threw open the door, and descended with his basket; while, after handing down the lanthorn into the black well-like hole, Jemmy climbed up again to the surface and stood with his eyes just above the level, sheltered by blackberry strands and other growth, and slowly made his eyes revolve; till, at the end of half an hour, Ram reappeared, when the business of closing and bolting the door went on, while Jemmy blew out the light, closed the lanthorn, through whose crevices came forth an unpleasant odour, bore it back to its hiding-place; and then the pair departed as cautiously as they came. “What did he say?” growled Jemmy. “Oh, not much. Seemed all grumpy, and wouldn’t answer a civil question.” “Should ha’ kicked him,” said Jemmy. Very little more was said till they reached home, and Ram busied himself about the farm till after supper, wishing that he could help the midshipman to escape without getting his father into trouble. He was thinking how horribly dark and miserable the old quarry must be, for the first time. The thought had not occurred to him before, through every hole and corner being so familiar, from the fact that scores of times he had held the lanthorn while his father’s men carried in smuggled goods landed at the ledge, if there was plenty of time; for, if the landing had been hurried, and the danger near, the things were often carried up to the Hoze for temporary deposit till carts came to bear the things into the interior. “I do wish he’d be friends,” thought Ram, when his musings were interrupted by his father saying,— “Ah, there’s that basket Jemmy found’s mornin’. Go and take it up to the Hoze.” “He needn’t go to-night, need he?” said Mrs Shackle. “You mind your own business,” said the farmer fiercely. “Be off, boy.” Ram put on his red cap, took the basket, and trotted off toward the Hoze, while Mrs Shackle sighed, for she knew that something particular must be on the way, or Ram would not have been sent off, and her husband have prepared to go out directly after. “Oh dear me, dear me, dear me!” said the plump, comfortable-looking woman, as the door closed on her husband’s back. “If he would only keep to his cows and sheep!” “Here,” said the farmer, reopening the door, “be off to bed. Ramillies need not know that I’m gone out.” “No, dear. But do take care of yourself.” “Yah!” Bang went the door, and Mrs Shackle, after putting a few things straight, went off obediently to bed, troubling in no wise about the door being left on the latch. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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