. . Ah, here we are!"--as a couple of
preventive men splashed ashore, trundling a cask along the plank
between them, and up-ended it close by the water's edge.
Captain Arbuthnot had dismounted and, advancing with his arm through
his charger's bridle, bent over the cask.
"Devilish queer-smelling brandy!" he observed, drawing back a pace
and sniffing.
"It has been standing in the bilge. These fellows never clean out
their boats from one year's end to another," said Mr. Smellie,
positively. Yet he, too, eyed the cask with momentary suspicion.
In shape, in colour, it resembled the tubs in which Guernsey
ordinarily exported its _eau-de-vie_. It was slung, too, ready for
carriage, and with French left-handed rope, and yet. . . . It seemed
unusually large for a Guernsey tub . . . and unusually light in
scantling. . . .
"Shall I spile en, maister?" asked one of the preventive men,
producing a large auger.
"No, stave its head in. And fetch a pannikin, somebody. There's
good water at the beach-head; and I dare say your men, Captain, won't
despise a tot of French liquor after their ride."
The preventive man set his chisel against the inner rim of the cask,
and dealt it a short sharp blow with his hammer, a sort of trial tap,
to guide his aim. "French liquor?" He sniffed. "Furrin fruit, more
like. Phew! Keep back there, and stand by for lavender!"
Crash! .
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