. .
"Pf--f!"
"Ar-r-r-ugh! Oh, merciful Heaven!" Captain Arbuthnot staggered
back, clapping thumb and forefinger to his nose.
"PILCHARDS!"
"SALT PILCHARDS!"
"ROTTEN PILCHARDS!"
Mr. Smellie opened his mouth, but collapsed in a fit of retching, as
from right and left, and from the darkness all around him, a roar of
Homeric laughter woke the echoes of the Cove. Men rolled about
laughing. Men leaned against one another to laugh.
Already the preventive men on board the luggers--having been rash
enough to prise open some half a dozen casks--had dropped overboard
and were wading ashore, coughing and spitting as they came. Amid the
uproar Major Hymen kept a perfectly grave face.
"You see, sir," he explained to Captain Arbuthnot, "Mr. Smellie is
fond of hunting where there is no fox. So some of my youngsters hit
on the idea of providing him with a drag. They have spent a week at
least in painting these casks to look like the real thing. . . . I am
sorry, sir, that you and your gallant fellows should have been misled
by an officious civilian; but if I might suggest your marching on to
Looe, where a good supper awaits us, to take this taste out of our
mouths--and good liquor too, not contraband, to drown resentment--"
The Captain may surely be pardoned if for the moment even this gentle
speech failed to placate him. He turned in dudgeon amid the grinning
crowd and was in the act of remounting, but missed the stirrup as his
charger reared and backed before the noise of yet another diversion.
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