A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

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much doubted whether he would have enjoyed himself at all, for Doctor Syn’s ma

“Here’s to the feet wot have walked the plank,

Yo ho! for the dead man’s throttle.

And here’s to the corpses floating round in the tank,

And the dead man’s teeth in the bottle.”

Now to make conversation Jerry was bold enough to interrupt this song by inquiring what exactly was meant by the “dead man’s throttle.” Doctor Syn stopped in his walk and looked at him, filling two tots of rum, one of which he handed to Jerk, tossing off the other himself and saying:

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“Ah, you may well ask that, so

“Oh, I see!” replied Jerk with interest. “Then I take it that the rest of the song has some shreds of meaning, too? What’s the ‘tank’ that the corpses float round in, sir?”

“The sea,” replied the Doctor, “the sea; that’s the great tank, my lad, and that there are corpses enough floating round in it, I don’t think you and I could doubt.”

“That’s plain and true enough,” said Jerk, “but I don’t see no sense about the ‘dead man’s teeth in the bottle.’”

“That’s plain enough,” said the Doctor, taking a stiff swig from the black bottle itself; “it was in England’s day that I wrote that. He cut a nigger’s head

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off with a cutlass because the rascal was drinking his best rum on the sly, and the shock, as he died, made the black brute bite through the glass neck of the bottle.”

“Did you see it, sir?” asked Jerk, carried away by the tale. “Who said I saw it?” demanded the cleric sharply. “Well, you said you wrote the song, sir, and at the time it happened.” “Nothing of the kind—I said nothing of the kind. The song’s an old one, an

ancient thing. God knows what rascal invented it, but you can depend upon it, a rascal he was. I don’t know why I should hum it—I don’t know what it means; can’t make head or tale of the jargon.”

“You explains it very sensible, I thinks,” replied Jerry. “I don’t—I don’t. I give you my word it’s Greek to me.” “But Greek’s easy for parsons, ain’t it?”

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“Yes, yes—well, Chinese, Fiji—what you will—what you will. Have some rum!” The Doctor’s ma

“Well, my lad,” said the vicar, “now you know where I feed, drop in again. Parochial matters to attend to with the schoolmaster: must choose the hymns, you know, for Sunday, or the choir will have nothing to sing.” And in this vein he led the boy into the hall. He then dropped his voice to a whisper: “You were wrong about the schoolmaster last night, so

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can’t tell you just yet, because I’m not quite sure of my ground; and it’s dangerous ground we’re treading, Jerry, you and I. Now here’s another crown— that one’s for keeping your eye open—do you know what the other’s for?”

“What?”

“Keeping your mouth shut. Don’t you remember anything about last night till I tell you—you wouldn’t understand if I was to explain. You’re very young, you know, Jerry lad, but smart’s the word that describes you, and no mistaking. You’re smart and bright—as bright as the buttons on that sea captain’s coat— as bright as a thousand new guinea bits just served from the mint—that’s what you are, and no mistake!”

“I hope so,” replied Jerk, stepping out of the front door. “I thinks I am!”

“God bless you!” said the Doctor, shutting the door and returning to Rash, who was waiting in the shuttered room by the light of the guttering candles.

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Chapter 15

A Landed Proprietor Sets Up a Gallows Tree

Back at the Ship and to duty went “Hangman Jerk,” with much to think over in his bullet head, and much to digest in his tight little stomach. To make head or tail of the Doctor’s remarkable ma

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Approaching the bar door, he paused, for he heard voices within, voices that he knew released him from work, the voices of Mrs. Waggetts and the pride of her life—the sexton Mipps.

Jerk knew exactly how the land lay with Mrs. Waggetts, and he was always wondering when (if ever) she would succeed in folding that queer little man within the safe bonds of matrimony. Now whatever Jerk’s failings may have been, he was loyal to his friends, and Mrs. Waggetts was not only his friend but his employer, and she had done him one or two very good turns. For one thing, she had given him a money box in which to save a portion of his weekly wage. That doesn’t sound a great deal on the surface, it is true, but her kindness had not ended there, as you shall see. Jerk’s teeth were not sweet, like those of most boys of his age; he never bought sweetmeats, barley sugar, and such child’s trash. No, when he wanted a pick-me-up it was a grown man’s pick-meup that he indulged in—a pa

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spit at the china spittoon that stood in the front of the bar. These indulgences had no effect on his purse, for the cravings of the first two were easily satisfied from the bar store when nobody was looking, and the third he was at liberty to practise whenever he felt so disposed. And thus it was that, although but approaching thirteen years of age, he had through the good offices of the landlady and a systematic use of her money box already become a landed proprietor. When the landlady heard that Jerk wanted to spend his savings on such a very strange thing as land she had exclaimed in some surprise:

“Lord bless the boy! Land? What can a boy of that age want with a plot of land?”

“The money’s good enough, ain’t it, ma’am? Very well, then, I wants land. A nice little bit of snug mudbank where I can hide and learn about the Marsh. If I’ve a bit of mud wot’s all mine on Romney Marsh—well, I’ll be a Marshman, I’ll be, and it’s a Marshman proper I wants to be.”

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So Mrs. Waggetts consented, and bought a plot for him situated about a mile and a half from the village and a rough half mile from the sea. As land, it was of no use in the commercial sense—in fact, the farmer had thought the landlady clean crazed to buy it, though the price was small enough as far as prices go on the Marsh. It was more mud than land, surrounded by two broad dykes that slowly oozed round to meet in a sluice cha