about these men.  One of them, at least, was
a good judge of rum.  While the two new
comers were eating and drinking, she called
Austin, their recent guide, aside, and told
him "she was afraid they were come to do
the smugglers hurt."  This offensive suspicion
had never crossed the mind of Austin.  He
told her they were going to Major Batten's
—that he "did not suspect any harm, for
they were merely carrying a letter to the
Major."

This, however, only convinced Widow
Payne of the correctness of her surmises, and
she privately sent one of her blacksmith sons,
who was then in the house, for two men
named William Jackson and William Carter,
who lived hard by.  While the son was gone
Chater and Galley wanted to be going, and
asked for their horses; but Mrs. Payne told
them that the man was gone out with the
key of the stables, and would be home shortly,
which, it is supposed, was but a trick of hers
to occasion delay.  As soon as Jackson came
in, he called for "a pot of hot," and while
that was getting ready, Carter arrived.  Mrs.
Payne immediately took them aside, and told
them her suspicions concerning the two
strangers, who were going with a letter to
Major Batten.  She then advised George
Austin to go away about his business, telling
him "as she respected him, he had better go,
and not loiter about, lest he should come to
some harm."  Upon this hint he promptly
went away.

Things soon began to look still more
ominous for the officer and his friend; but,
with a strange infatuation, they lingered,
drinking while waiting for the stable key.
So far from taking alarm at the number of
men who now came dropping in one after
the other, they congratulated themselves
on finding so much good company, and
smoked and drank till their business almost
faded from their minds.  Dusk was coming
on, and, although not drunk, they were
hardly in a fit condition to deliver themselves
on important business to a military
gentleman, and a justice of the peace.
Chater grew sleepy-eyed, and talked
foolishly about himself and his own cleverness,
and of what great men had been shoe-
makers. Jackson, taking advantage of this,
walked with him into the garden, and
asked him how he did, and where
Dymond, the shepherd, was.  Chater said he
believed he was in custody, but where
or how he did not know; adding, like
a fool, as indeed the drink had made
him, "that he was going to appear against
him, which he was sorry for, but could not
help it."

Galley soon after came into the garden,
suspecting that Jackson was persuading him
not to persist in giving information against
the smugglers, and upon Galley's desiring
his friend to come in, Jackson said, "What
is that to you?" and, being a powerful man,
he struck the unfortunate revenue-officer a
blow, which set his mouth and nose bleeding,
and knocked him down.  Galley then incautiously
said he was the king's officer.  Jackson
replied, with another oath, "You a king's
officer?  I'll make a king's officer of you;
and, for another gill, I'll serve you so again."
Offering to strike him again, one of the
Paynes cried, "Don't be such a fool: do you
know what you are doing?"

The two strangers now became uneasy,
and wanted, at all risks, to be going; but
Jackson, Carter, and the rest of the
smuggling party persuaded them to stay, and
drink more rum, and make it up; for they
were sorry, they said, for what had happened.
Night having now overtaken them, it would
be very inconvenient to go on to their
destination. They decided to stay, and the party
sat down again together.  It was near the
time for closing the door of the White Hart,
but the whole of the guests remained.  Their
number had increased—and this fact alone
ought to have alarmed the officer and his
companion, still more; but they were
now fast losing all fear.  Chater bragged
of being the only friend of the Government
in the whole neighbourhood, and talked
of bringing down the smugglers very soon;
and, sometimes, in his foolish eyes, the
room became a court of law, in which he
held forth, to a misty-looking judge and
jury, upon the wickedness of smuggling:
for, blinded by his drunken folly, he did not
see the darkening faces of the men about
him, nor note the ominous silence in which
they listened to his vague words.  Nor was
Galley more sober, although, with the habitual
prudence of his profession, he nudged his
friend from time to time, and bade him hold
his tongue.  In this state, the two were at
last led up to bed.

And now the White Hart doors are closed;
the place is silent, and the lights are out,
save in one room—the room in which the
strangers had been sitting—where the
company that they had left there still lingered.
Not a man of them offering to stir.
Something was in the minds of all; although,
perhaps, even the most daring knew not exactly
what was to be done.  Nor did any vision
visit the two strangers, with a sudden shudder
through the blood, to rouse them from their
drunken sleep, or warn them of the horrors
of that night.

After a while, two of the gang stole
upstairs, listening at the door.  Hearing the
snoring of the sleeping men, they entered the
room.  Here they found Galley and Chater,
lying in their clothes upon their bed: and,
gently moving Chater, who was much too
sound asleep to heed them, they took from
his pocket the letter to the justice.  This
was quietly brought down, and read in the
kitchen to the smugglers, to whom it revealed
exactly the bearer's errand.  This inflamed
their rage still more; and they held a