A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

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could not smooth over; in fact, he was at great pains not to quarrel with the captain, like the squire had done, for the captain was evidently very sensitive within that rough exterior, as he had shown by not attempting to patch up his quarrel with the squire.

So Jerry watched them as they breakfasted in the sanded parlour of the Ship, keeping in the room all he could and dreading to be dismissed.

Presently the captain turned to him and inquired whether he had breakfasted. Jerry replied that he certainly had had a snack or two, but that broiled fish always did go down very pleasant with bread and butter and fresh milk, and accepted with alacrity the invitation from the captain to bring a chair and help himself.

The captain got up, filled a pipe and lit it, and the Doctor did the same; then both men pushed their plates to the centre of the table, leaning their elbows on the cleared space; and Jerry in the centre, for all the world like a judge of some

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quaint game of skill, watched the opponents as they drew deliberately at their pipes, sending preliminary battle clouds across the table before the real tussle began—aye, a fight of brains, each one desirous of ascertaining how much the other knew or guessed about these strange events, but each very fearful of betraying what he guessed. So Jerry watched them, feeling certain that a battle was imminent, wondering upon what side he would be called to fight, and what the end of it all would be; but with all his watching and wondering he didn’t forget to eat, and eat heartily, too, for Jerry’s maxim was, “Eat when you can, and only think when you’ve got to.”

The captain spoke first.

“Doctor Syn, you heard me say at that inquiry yesterday that I was no strategist, that I was only a fighter.”

“I did,” returned the cleric.

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“I know everything inside, outside, and around-about a ship, but I don’t know much else, and certainly nothing else thoroughly, so to speak. But I have seen other things in my time, for all that, just as any one who travels is bound to see things, and, just as any one else that travels, I have remembered a few things outside my business, just a few; the rest I’ve forgotten. Now you’re different from that, for you’re a scholar and have travelled widely, too, and a man who can use his book knowledge with what he comes in contact with in the world is the sort of man who might perhaps explain what’s bothering me at the present moment, for I am dense; you are not.”

“What is bothering you, Captain? Of course something to do with these murders that are uppermost in our minds?”

“Something, I dare say,” replied the captain slowly, weighing his every word, “but, on the other hand, maybe it’s nothing. I can’t co

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though, tried hard, been trying all through breakfast, and it worries me, because, as a man of action, thinking always does worry me sorely. You may laugh at what I am going to tell you; if you do I shan’t take offence, because it’s precisely what I should have done had any one told me about what I’m going to tell you, something that”—the captain hesitated, speaking as if he longed to keep silent; speaking as if afraid of being disbelieved—“something—well, I’ll tell you that it sounds ridiculous on the face of it, but something which—well, which I saw myself.”

“Tell me,” said the cleric, leaning farther forward over the table.

The captain sat up rigid in his chair, took his pipe from between his lips, and spoke as if repeating a lesson that he didn’t understand.

“Once in a Cuban town, in a little Cuban town—can’t remember the precise longitude and latitude—but that’s no matter, and I can’t even remember the

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name of the town or what I was doing there exactly, but that has no odds on the

story.”

“Go on,” said the cleric.

“Well, in this little Cuban town I saw an old priest die. He was as dead as this table, you understand, the doctor said so, and I knew it. Well, imagine my horror when half an hour after death this old man arose, entered the next hut, and deliberately, brutally, and carefully stabbed a sleeping child to death.”

The Doctor said nothing, but just looked at the captain.

Jerry stopped eating and looked at Doctor Syn. He was pale, very pale.

Then the captain leaned over the table and continued speaking, but not like a lesson, for there was a thrill in his voice that carried conviction, so Jerry looked at him.

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“I found out afterward that the dead fellow had borne a lifelong grudge against his neighbour. The revenge that he had somehow failed to get during his lifetime he accomplished after his death. It was devilish curious.”

“It was a devilish trick,” explained the Doctor. “The fellow was feigning death to a good purpose—namely, to put his neighbour off his guard. He was not really dead. It would be against all laws of nature—why, of course it would —for a man to arise and walk and commit a foul murder half an hour after his decease! Nonsense, fanciful nonsense!”

“Against the laws of nature, I’ll allow,” went on the captain, as if he had fully expected that his story would be disbelieved, “but if you’ll excuse me saying so, who are you, Doctor Syn, and for the matter of that who am I, to say what the laws of nature are, or to dare to affirm just how far they extend? For my own part, I should prefer to question my own ignorance rather than the laws of nature.”

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“But in what way do you hint at a co

“Why, just this,” went on the captain deliberately. “When you caught sight of this same murdering-mad seaman—you remember, last night, outside the barn—I noticed that you took cold all of a sudden; you got the shivers.”

“Marsh ague—marsh ague,” put in the cleric quickly. “Get it often in this place. Poor old Se

“Ah, then there falls one of my points to the ground. Still I have another ready. Suppose we grant that your attack of ague had nothing to do with your sudden meeting with this man.”

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“Of course it hadn’t,” muttered the Doctor. “Absurd!”

“Very well, then, did you notice that the entire weight of the barrel was carried by Bill Spiker, the gu

“No,” said the Doctor, “I didn’t notice that.”

“No more did Bill Spiker,” said the captain; “you can lay to that, or he would have soon raised objections; but I did notice it, because it’s my business to note which of my men work hardest, you understand; for in cases of preferment I have to give my opinion.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with the case,” said the Doctor. “It’s a common enough complaint to find a man shirking work.”

“Not when the man who shirks is an enthusiastic and willing worker. That’s what made me wonder in the first place, and I’ve now come to the conclusion that whenever the mulatto was ordered to work alone—alone, mind you, without the help of the other seamen—why, he could accomplish anything, but