“Then why should they be at such pains to hide the entrance, sir?” returned the bo’sun.
“There’s nothing in that,” replied the captain. “It’s natural that they don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry going into the wine-cellar.”
“I suppose it is, sir,” agreed the bo’sun, “but it looks a costly bottle, though it could do with a bit of a shine,” he added, spitting on it and giving it a vigorous rub with his sleeve.
“Let’s look at the label,” said the captain. “ ‘Alsace Lorraine, White, Rare 500.’ What on earth does ‘500’ mean?”
“The date, sir,” ejaculated the bo’sun; “it’s the date. My eye! that’s enough to give a man a bad head. It’s over a thousand years old.”
“Nonsense, my man,” said the captain, laughing. “It means that this bottle is one of a cargo of five hundred.”
“Of course,” said the bo’sun, slapping his knee. “What a thundering old idiot I am, to be sure. You’re right, sir, as you always are, for I see the other four hundred and ninety-nine down below there. But,” he added ruefully, “we’ve got no proof that they’re smuggled.”
“We’ll soon get that,” said the captain, thrusting the bottle into the capacious skirt pocket of his sea-coat. “Put these things back, and summon the landlady.”
Then the captain unlocked the door and quietly opened it.
Coming up quickly from a stooping position near the keyhole was Mr. Mipps, the sexton.
“You’re a fine fellow,” he said, not at all put out of countenance by the captain having found him eavesdropping, “a very fine fellow to come lookin’ for smuggling, with a gang o’ blasphemous scoundrels wot kick up more to-do than the Tower of Babel. Look here, sir, are you coming in to keep order or not? I only want a word, Yes or No, for I shall go straight round to the courthouse and report you to the squire. And then p’raps he won’t put you and your crew into the cells there; p’raps he won’t—only p’raps, ’cos I’m dead sure he will.”
“What are my boys doing?” laughed the captain.
“What are the little dears not doing?” answered the sexton, thoroughly angry. “Oh, nothing, I assure you! Only upsetting the barrels, throwin’ about the tankards, stealin’ the drinks, and makin’ fun of Missus Waggetts.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the captain. “Tell Mrs. Waggetts to come here.”
“You tell worse men than yourself to do your dirty work,” replied the sexton. “Do you think I’m a powder monkey that I should fetch and carry Missus Waggetts for you? Fetch her yourself, or send old fat-sides there,” he added, jerking his thumb at the bo’sun, “or that dear old white-haired admiral wot’s lost his yellow earflaps. As for me, I’m a-goin’ to the courthouse, and if you don’t know what for, you’ll soon learn—you and old fat-sides.” The bo’sun made a grab at him, but Mipps slipped through the crowded bar and was running up the high road.
The captain now stepped into the bar. Order was at once restored. “Now, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Waggetts, “while the bo’sun is seeing that your score is paid, give me a bottle of wine.”
“Port or claret, sir?” said the landlady.
“Neither,” said the captain. “I have a fancy to try a bottle of Alsatian. Yes, a white wine from Alsace Lorraine.”
But before the captain had time to smack his lips Mrs. Waggetts replied: “Oh, we don’t keep that, sir.”
“No?” queried the captain.
“No, indeed, sir,” said the landlady. “You see there’s no call for it in these parts. And then the customs are so high we couldn’t afford to stock it for the few and far betweens as might ask for it. Why, for my own part, sir, though I’ve been in the business these—well, many years now, I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Really!” said the captain. “Well, it’s a good wine, ma’am. Now, bo’sun, pipe the men outside.”
“Won’t you try a bottle of claret, sir?” said the landlady with persuasion.
“No,” said the captain, “later on, perhaps. I’ll see. By the way, is there any old barn about where I could quarter my men? I’m loath to billet them on the village.”
“No, I don’t know anywhere,” returned the landlady. “Do you, Mr. Rash? Perhaps you’d loan the schoolhouse to the captain?”
“Yes, and give us a holiday for once in a way!” chimed in the potboy.
“It’s not to be thought of,” said the schoolmaster, walking out of the inn.
“No one uses the church on weekdays, I suppose,” said the captain. “I daresay there’s room for them there, in the vestry or the tower perhaps, or even in the crypt.”
“Them drunken ruffians in the church!” cried out young Jerk, pulling a horrified face, and indicating the rough sailors who were now outside the inn. “You’d better watch out what you’re up to, or you’ll have the vicar on your track.”
“I’ll tell you where you’ll end, my lad,” said the captain, turning on him sharply.
“Where, sir?” said young Jerk, looking really interested.
“If not upon the scaffold, uncommon near it, I’ll be bound,” the captain replied.
I hope so indeed,
thought Hangman Jerk, and I hopes it’ll be a-fixing the noose around your bull neck.
But he kept this thought to himself, for he suddenly remembered that the captain could be rather too playful for his liking; so he watched the sailors shouldering their bundles, falling into line, and eventually swinging out of the old Ship Inn, followed by the captain.
VI
Doctor Syn Takes Cold
You can imagine that the coming of the King’s men caused some stir in Dymchurch; for after leaving the Ship Inn they were marched round the village and drawn up in front of the courthouse. Here they waited while the captain knocked upon the front door and asked for the squire.
“Sir Antony Cobtree is out riding,” said the butler. But at that instant a clattering of hoofs was heard upon the highway and the squire himself came along at an easy trot and drew rein before
