Amy expressed deep interest in this matter, and begged to hear all about it. Lucy, nothing loath, related the event circumstantially; and Amy, gazing earnestly in her beautiful animated countenance, sighed and regarded her with an expression of sad interest, — also with feelings which she herself could not understand.

  “But how comes it that you have never seen Bax till to-night?” inquired Lucy, when she had finished her narrative.

  “Because I have not been very long here,” said Amy, “and Bax had ceased to dwell regularly on the coast about the time I was saved, and came to live with Mrs Foster.”

  “Saved! — Mrs Foster!” exclaimed Lucy.

  “Yes, Mrs Foster is not my mother.”

  “And Guy is not your brother?” said Lucy, with a glance so quick and earnest, that Amy felt a little confused.

  “No, he is not,” said she, “but he saved my life at the end of Ramsgate pier, and ever since then I have lived with his mother.”

  It was now Lucy’s turn to express deep interest. She begged to have the circumstances related to her, and Amy, nothing loath, told her how Guy had plunged into the sea when no one else observed her danger, and caught her just as she was sinking.

  As Amy told her story with animation, and spoke of Guy, with sparkling eyes, and a rich glow on her fair cheek, Lucy gazed at her with grave interest, and felt sensations in her breast, which were quite new to her, and altogether incomprehensible.

  Three times had Mrs Laker been sent to knock at Amy’s door, and inform the young ladies that supper awaited them, before they completed their toilet, and descended to the drawing-room.

  Laker called it supper, because she could not conscientiously give the name of breakfast to a meal extemporised about four o’clock in the morning!

  Mr Burton and Bluenose were already seated at the table. Bax stood near the fireplace bending down to Mrs Foster, who was looking up in his face, shaking his hand, and thanking him, with tears in her eyes, for having saved her son’s life! Bax was much perplexed by this view of the matter, taken and obstinately held to by the widow.

  “Really, ma’am,” said he, with a deprecatory smile, “you are mistaken, I assure you. I did not save Guy’s life — on the contrary, he saved mine this night; for if he had not jumped well to wind’ard with the line and caught hold of the old foremast, where Tommy and I were perched like two birds—”

  “Ha,” interrupted Bluenose, bluntly, “you’d both’s bin in Davy Jones’ locker by this time; for I seed the old stick myself, not three minits arter, go by the board like the stem of a baccy pipe.”

  It was just as Bluenose concluded this speech that the young ladies entered the room.

  “Come,” cried Bax, turning quickly towards Lucy, who advanced first, “here is another witness to the fact. Do try, Miss Burton, to convince Mrs Foster that I did not—”

  Bax paused, for his glance fell at that moment on Amy Russell, whom he had not observed in the confusion of their first appearance in the cottage.

  “My adopted daughter,” said Mrs Foster, taking Amy by the hand and leading her forward; “shake hands with Mr Bax, darling, who has saved Guy’s life to-night.”

  Bax held Amy’s white little hand for one moment as tenderly as if he were afraid his own iron muscles might injure it.

  “I see,” said he, with a smile, “that I must submit to be misrepresented until Guy himself comes to defend me.”

  Amy glanced at Lucy and blushed. Lucy glanced at Amy and looked confused; then the whole party laughed, and Bluenose said that for his part he didn’t see no savin’ o’ life one way or other, ‘xcepting as regarded the lifeboat, which he wos bound for to say had saved the whole lot of ‘em, and that was all about it; whereupon they all sat down to supper, and the missionary asked a blessing; thanking God for their recent deliverance, and praying in a few earnest words for continued favour.

  Bluenose was a man of peculiar and decided character. He did not at all relish his position in the drawing-room when he thought of his sister Mrs Laker supping in the kitchen. Being an impulsive man, he seized his cap, and said abruptly to his hostess:

  “I’ll tell ‘ee wot it is, marm, I aint used to this ‘ere sort o’ thing. If you’ll excudge me, marm, I’ll go an’ ‘ave my snack with Bess i’ the kitchen. Bax, there, he’s a sort o’ gen’leman by natur’ as well as hedication; but as for me I’m free to say as I prefers the fo’gs’l to the cabin — no offence meant. Come along, Tommy, and bring yer pannikin along with ‘ee, lad, you’re like a fish out o’ water too.”

  So saying, Captain Bluenose bowed to the company with what he meant to be an affable and apologetic air, and quitted the room without waiting for a reply.

  “Ah, Bluenose,” said Mrs Laker, as her brother entered, cap in hand, and seated himself among the men of the “Nancy,” who were doing full justice to Mrs Foster’s hospitality, “I thought ye wouldn’t be long in the parlour, for you aint bin used to ‘igh life, an’ w’y should you? as was born of poor but respectible parients, not but that the parients of the rich may be respectible also, I don’t go for to impinge no one, sit down, Tommy, my dear child, only think! ee’s bin ‘alf drownded, an’ ‘is mother dead only two year next Whitsuntide; sit down, Tommy, wot’ll ye ‘ave?”

  Tommy said he would have a bit of beef-steak pie; — got it, and set to work immediately.

  It may be as well to state here that Mrs Laker was not a married woman, but, having reached a certain age, she deemed it advisable, in order to maintain the dignity of her character and personal appearance (which latter was stout and matronly) to dub herself Mrs — Laker being her maiden name. This statement involves a further explanation, inasmuch as it establishes the fact that Bluenose ought, in simple justice and propriety, to have gone by the name of Laker also.

  But on the beach of Deal justice and propriety in regard to names are not necessarily held in great repute. At least they were not so a few years ago. Smuggling, as has been said, was rather prevalent in days gone by. Indeed, the man who was not a smuggler was an exception to the rule, if such a man ever existed. During their night expeditions, boatmen were often under the necessity of addressing each other in hoarse whispers, at times and in circumstances when coast-guard ears were uncommonly acute. Hence, in order to prevent inconvenient recognition, the men were wont to give each other nicknames, which nicknames descended frequently to their offspring.

  The father of Captain Bluenose and of Mrs Laker had been a notorious scamp about the beginning of this century, at which period Deal may be said to have been in full swing in regard to smuggling and the French war. The old smuggler was uncommonly well acquainted with the towns of Calais, Gravelines, Dunkerque, Nieuport, and Ostende — notwithstanding that they lay in the enemy’s country. He had also enough of bad French to enable him to carry on his business, and was addicted to French brandy. It was the latter circumstance which turned his nose purple; procuring for him, as well as entailing on his son, the name of Bluenose, a name which our Captain certainly did not deserve, seeing that his nose was fiery red in colour, — perhaps a little too fat to be styled classic, but, on the whole, a most respectable nose.

  Few of the boatmen of Deal went by their right names; but such soubriquets as Doey, Jack Onion, Skys’lyard Dick, Mackerel, Trappy, Rodney Nick, Sugarplum, etcetera, were common enough. Perchance they are not obsolete at the present day!

  While the crew of the “Nancy” were making merry in the kitchen, the parlour bell rang violently, and Laker disappeared from the scene.

  “You’re wanted, Tommy, darling,” said the worthy woman, returning promptly.

  Tommy rose and was ushered into the parlour.

  “Little boy,” said Mrs Foster, “my son Guy has sent a message requiring your attendance. I tried to prevent him seeing you; but he insists on it. Come, I will take you to his room. You must try, child, and not encourage him to talk. It will be bad for him, I fear.”

  “Leave us, mother, dear,” said Guy, as they entered; “I wish to be alone with Tommy, only for ten minutes — not longer.”

  Mrs Foster tried to remonstrate, but an impatient gesture from her son induced her to quit the room.

  “You can write, Tommy?”

  “Yes, sir. I — I hope you ain’t much hurt, sir?”

  “Oh no! — a mere scratch. It’s only the loss of blood that weakens me. I’ll be all right in a few days. Now, sit down at that table and take a pen. Are you ready?”

  Tommy said that he was, and Guy Foster dictated the following note to Mr Denham, of the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company: —

  “Deal.

  “Dear Uncle, — I’m sorry to have to inform you that the ‘Nancy’ has become a total wreck on the Goodwin Sands. The cargo has been entirely lost — also two of the hands.

  “I am at present disabled, from the effects of a blow on the head received during the storm. No doubt Bax will be up immediately to give you particulars.

  “The cause of the loss of your schooner was, in my opinion, unseaworthiness of vessel and stores.

  “Your affectionate nephew, Guy Foster.”

  “Hallo!” thought Tommy, “that’s a stinger!”

  “There,” said Guy, as he attached his signature, “fold and address that, and be off with it as fast as you can to the post.”

  Tommy vanished in an instant, and was quickly at the post-office, which stood, at that time, near the centre of the town. He dropped the letter in, and having thus fulfilled his mission, relapsed into that easy swagger or roll that seems to be the natural and characteristic gait of Jack when ashore. He had not proceeded far when the sound of voices in dispute attracted his ear. The gale was still at its height, and the noise occasioned by its whistling among the chimneys and whirling round street corners was so great that the words uttered by the speakers were not distinguishable. Still there was some peculiarity in the tone which irresistibly attracted the boy. Perhaps Tommy was unusually curious that night; perhaps he was smitten, like Haroun Alraschid, with a desire for adventure; but whatever was the truth in regard to this, it is certain that, instead of passing on, as most people would naturally have done, Tommy approached the place whence the sounds proceeded with cautious steps — keeping as much in the shade of the houses as possible, although owing to the darkness of the night, this latter precaution was unnecessary.

  Chapter Eight.

  The Living Left Among the Dead — A Wild Chase on a Wild Night Stopped by a Ghost.

  On turning the corner of one of those houses on the beach of Deal which stand so close to the sea that in many cases they occupy common ground with the boats, Tommy found himself suddenly close to a group of men, one of whom, a very tall man, was addressing the others in an excited tone.

  “I’ll tell ‘ee wot it is, lads, let’s put ‘im in a sack an’ leave him in the Great Chapel Field to cool hisself.” (The “Great Chapel Field” was the name formerly applied by the boatmen to Saint George’s Churchyard.)

  “Sarve him right, the beggar,” said another man, with a low laugh, “he’s spoilt our game many a night. What say, boys? heave ‘im shoulder high?”

  The proposal was unanimously agreed to, and the party went towards an object which lay recumbent on the ground, near to one of those large capstans which are used on this part of the Kentish coast to haul up the boats. The object turned out to be a man, bound hand and foot, and with a handkerchief tied round the mouth to insure silence. Tommy was so near that he had no difficulty in recognising in this unfortunate the person of old Coleman, the member of the coast-guard who had been most successful in thwarting the plans of the smugglers for some years past. Rendered somewhat desperate by his prying disposition, they had seized him on this particular night, during a scuffle, and were now about to dispose of him in a time-honoured way.

  Tommy also discovered that the coast-guard-man’s captors were Long Orrick, Rodney Nick, and a few more of his boatmen acquaintances. He watched them with much interest as they enveloped Coleman’s burly figure in a huge sack, tied it over his head, and, raising him on their shoulders bore him away.

  Tommy followed at a safe distance, but he soon stopped, observing that two of the party had fallen behind the rest, engaged apparently in earnest conversation. They stood still a few minutes under the lee of a low-roofed cottage. Tommy crept as close to them as possible and listened.

  “Come, Rodney Nick,” said one of the two, whose height proclaimed him to be Long Orrick, “a feller can’t talk in the teeth o’ sich a gale as this. Let’s stand in the lee o’ this old place here, and I’ll tell ye in two minits wot I wants to do. You see that old sinner Jeph refuses pint-blank to let me use his ‘hide;’ he’s become such a hypocrite that he says he won’t encourage smugglin’.”

  “Well, wot then?” inquired Rodney Nick.

  “W’y, I means to make ‘im give in,” returned Long Orrick.

  “An’ s’pose he won’t give in?” suggested Rodney.

  “Then I’ll cut his throat,” replied Orrick, fiercely.

  “Then I’ll have nothin’ to do with it.”

  “Stop!” cried the other, seizing his comrade by the arm as he was turning to go away. “A feller might as well try to joke with a jackass as with you. In coorse I don’t mean that; but I’ll threaten the old hypocrite and terrify him till he’s half dead, and then he’ll give in.”

  “He’s a frail old man,” said Rodney; “suppose he should die with fright?”

  “Then let him die!” retorted Long Orrick.

  “Humph; and s’pose he can’t be terrified?”

  “Oh! get along with yer s’posin’. Will ye go or will ye not? that’s the question, as Shukspere’s ghost said to the Hemperer o’ Sweden.”

  “Just you an’ me?” inquired Rodney.

  “Ain’t we enough for an old man?”

  “More nor enough,” replied Rodney, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone, “if the old boy han’t got friends with him. Don’t ye think Bax might have took a fancy to spend the night there?”

  “No,” said Long Orrick; “Bax is at supper in Sandhill Cottage, and he ain’t the man to leave good quarters in a hurry. But if yer afraid, we’ll go with our chums to the churchyard and take them along with us.”

  Rodney Nick laughed contemptuously, but made no reply, and the two immediately set off at a run to overtake their comrades. Tommy Bogey followed as close at their heels as he prudently could. They reached the walls of Saint George’s Church, or the “Great Chapel,” almost at the same moment with the rest of the party.

  The form of the old church could be dimly seen against the tempestuous sky as the smugglers halted under the lee of the churchyard wall like a band of black ghosts that had come to lay one of their defunct comrades, on a congenial night.

  At the north end of the burying-ground of Saint George’s Church there is a spot of ground which is pointed out to visitors as being the last resting-place of hundreds of the unfortunate men who fell in the sea-fights of our last war with France. A deep and broad trench was dug right across the churchyard, and here the gallant tars were laid in ghastly rows, as close together as they could be packed. Near to this spot stands the tomb of one of Lord Nelson’s young officers, and beside it grows a tree against which Nelson is said to have leaned when he attended the funeral.

  It was just a few yards distant from this tree that the smugglers scaled the wall and lifted over the helpless body of poor Coleman. They did it expeditiously and in dead silence. Carrying him into the centre of the yard, they deposited the luckless coast-guard-man flat on his back beside the tomb of George Philpot, a man who had done good service in his day and generation — if headstones are to be believed. The inscription, which may still be seen by the curious, runs thus: —

  A Tribute to the

  Skill and Determined Courage

  Of the Boatmen of Deal,

  And in Memory of

  George Philpot,

  Who Died March 22, 1850.

  “Full many lives he saved

  With his undaunted crew;

  He put his trust in Providence,

  And cared not how it blew.”

  In the companionship of such noble dead, the smugglers left Coleman to his fate, and set off to finish their night’s work at old Jeph’s humble cottage.

  Tommy Bogey heard them chuckle as they passed the spot where he lay concealed behind a tombstone, and he was sorely tempted to spring up with an unearthly yell, well knowing that the superstitious boatmen would take him for one risen from the dead, and fly in abject terror from the spot; but recollecting the importance of discretion in the work which now devolved on him, he prudently restrained himself.

  The instant they were over the wall Tommy was at Coleman’s side. He felt the poor man shudder, and heard him gasp as he cut the rope that tied the mouth of the sack; for Coleman knew well the spot to which they had conveyed him, and his face, when it became visible, was ghastly white and covered with a cold sweat caused by the belief that he was being opened out for examination by some inquisitive but unearthly visitor.

  “It’s only me,” said Tommy with an involuntary laugh. “Hold on, I’ll set you free in no time.”

  “Hah!” coughed Coleman when the kerchief was removed from his mouth, “wot a ‘orrible sensation it is to be choked alive!”

  “It would be worse to be choked dead,” said Tommy.

  “Cut the lines at my feet first, lad,” said Coleman, “they’ve a’most sawed through my ankle bones. There, that’s it now, help me to git up an’ shake myself.”

  A few minutes elapsed before he recovered the full use of his benumbed limbs. During this period, the boy related all he had heard, and urged his companion to “look alive.” But Coleman required no urging. The moment he became aware of what was going on he felt for his cutlass, which the smugglers had not taken the trouble to remove, and, slapping Tommy on the back, stumbled among the tombs and over the graves towards the wall, which he vaulted with a degree of activity that might have rendered a young man envious. Tommy followed like a squirrel, and in a very few minutes more they were close at the heels of Long Orrick and his friends.