A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

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advantages. Why, we can set you in the way of rollin’ in a coach before we’ve done with you, and who knows, years hence, when you’re older than you be now, who knows but what you might not succeed to the headship. If anything was to happen to the great chief wot’s to prevent you from taken’ his place, eh? You’re smart, ain’t you? There’s no gainsayin’ that, now, is there, Missus Waggetts?”

“No, indeed,” replied that lady.

“Then take my tip, the straight tip of an old gentleman o’ fortune, and you join us.”

“What’ll I have to do and what is it I’m a-joinin’, though?” asked the boy.

“The great scheme of wool-ru

“Ah,” sighed Jerry, “I thought as much. And what am I to do, always supposin’ that I’m willin’ to join?”

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“We’ve a vacancy in the horsemen—a man short, you see, though we’ve got the horse. It’s Mr. Rash’s horse, but we’ve turned out the schoolmaster and kept his horse. He weren’t one of us, you see, so we found that we didn’t want him no more.”

“You’ve killed him?” cried the hangman, starting up.

“I didn’t say that,” retorted the sexton. “I merely remarked that we didn’t want him no more. And now just give me your attention. I’ve every reason to believe, and so has the great chief that I work for, that you are gettin’ very thick with that swap of a King’s captain. Well, now, don’t go suddenly a-givin’ him the cold shoulder, do you see? You can’t drop a friend all at once like a hot potato without excitin’ the gossip and suspicion of folk; so remember what I says and keep civil to him. But it’s my opinion that after to-night you’ll know which side you be on, for once get the thrill of the demon ride and you’ll not

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want to get dismissed. Besides, gettin’ dismissed by our chief ain’t exactly

what you might term a pleasant form of bein’ entertained.”

“And what do I do, Mister Sexton?”

“You’ll get told all in good time.”

“But what do the demon riders do?” persisted the boy.

“Frighten folk from the Marsh when the ponies are trottin’ under the wool packs.”

“And where do the wool packs come from?”

“From nearly every farm on the Marsh.”

“And they put it all in packs and send ’em down to the coast?”

“That’s the ticket, my lad. Pack ’em all up on ponies and bring back coffins full of spirit from France.”

“Coffins full of spirit from France?” repeated the amazed boy.

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“Yes, that’s why I’m a coffin-maker. What would you expect to see inside a nailed-up coffin, eh?”

“Why, a dead ’un,” said the boy.

“Exactly; and as folk ain’t particular fond of amusin’ themselves with a sight of dead ’uns they lets my coffins alone, do you see, and the spirit is treated with every respect and is allowed to go on its way very snug and all knocked up most particular solid.”

“And the head of it all’s the squire, is it?”

“I never said so,” replied the sexton quickly; “but the less you think and say on that subject the better, for those who know the identity of the great chief would sooner have their eyes put out than betray him; so don’t you hamper your young career with thinkin’ about it. All you’ve got to do is to obey.”

“And what do I get out of it?”

“Gold and the time of your life.”

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“And when do I start?”

“To-night.”

“To-night?” faltered Jerk much relieved, for he had thought of his promise to help the captain, and was greatly thankful that the dates had not clashed.

“At half-past twelve at Old Tree Cottage; but don’t go to the coffin-shop side. Tap at the back kitchen window.”

“And half-past twelve, you say?”

“That’s the time,” answered Mipps, holding out his hands and seizing Jerk’s in both his. “And I can tell at a glance that your a-goin’ to be a credit to the undertakin’.”

And a minute afterward he was gone and Jerk was sent by Mrs. Waggetts into the bar to polish up the tankards.

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Chapter 24

The Coffin-Maker Has a Visitor

About noon of the same day Captain Collyer, in walking through the village, found himself passing Old Tree Cottage, the lowlying residence of Sexton Mipps, with its coffin shop facing the street and its small farmhouse behind. Attracted by a great noise of hammering, the captain stepped up to the window and glanced in. Rows of coffins lined the walls and coffin planks were everywhere propped up against shelves containing everything imaginable. In the centre of the shop stood two black trestle-stools, and upon these funeral relics reposed a large coffin with no lid. Inside this gloomy thing sat Mr.

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Mipps. He was sitting straight up and hammering lustily upon the coffin sides, singing away with much spirit to the rhythm:

Oh hammer, hammer, hammer, And damn her, damn her, damn her, For I don’t fear my wife now she’s dead.

The captain, amused at the crude words, pushed open the casement and leaned into the room. Whether the sexton saw him or not the captain did not know, but the song changed immediately to a song of the sea:

There’s no swab like the captain, There’s no swab like the captain, Of all the swabs I’ve ever seen, With a diddle diddle diddle diddle diddle diddle dee, No swab like the captain.

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“A very appropriate song, Master Sexton,” laughed the captain.

Mipps turned round and surveyed the intruder.

“Why, knock me up solid if it ain’t the good captain! The gold of the high noon to you, sir, though there ain’t much gold in the sky to-day. I take it as a very friendly piece of impertinence that you should come and look me up so unexpected. Had I knowed of your arrival I’d have had these grizzly relics stowed away, for some folk has a distinct dislike to lookin’ at these last dwellin’ houses.”

“You are used to ’em, I suppose, by now?” said the captain.

“Oh, love you, yes, I don’t mind ’em. Some undertakers has fearful superstitions about coffins. Some won’t get in ’em to measure ’em. Lord! I always does. I lie down inside ’em and pops the lid on the top to see if it’s airtight.”

“Awkward if the lid was to stick.”

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“You may well say that, ’cos once it did. But it weren’t so much awkward as peaceful, for after I’d pushed and struggled for a power o’ time, I just resigned myself to my fate, feelin’ thankful that at any rate I had had the privilege of bein’ my own undertaker. I shall never forget my feelin’s when my last bit of breath came up and went out. It was just the sort o’ feelin’ you gets when you drowns, only more so. ’Cos when you drowns you sees all the bad actions of your life a-troopin’ before you, but gettin’ buried alive is different, ’cos you sees all the good actions wot you’ve done. Mind you, things I’d clean forgot. Little acts of kindness wot I thought could never have been recorded anywhere. Why, they all walked out, and I seemed to be greatly comforted, ’cos, you see, I thought as how I was quite in the ru