above and at the sides of that old chimney-stack just as the fishing-folk were going home to bed. And then, how between one and two in the morning, horses at top speed had been heard coming down the street, with the sound of round oaths and pistol-shots intermingled. After that a second flash had come up from the house-top, and the next moment horsemen at full tear had dashed round the house, crossed the garden, and made for the low wall of the mill-pond. Splash after splash had been heard by the miller's men who were at work inside the mill that night, before all had vanished no one knew whither. But no sooner were they out of ear-shot than other horsemen were heard coming up; and, as they turned the corner, those who had caught a glimpse of them saw that they were excise officers.

The colour would fly to Den's pale cheeks as he listened to the yarns of the older lads; and health came back to his fever-wasted frame with the sun and the breezes that played on the roof tiling and the leads of the hospitable home of his mother's kinsfolk.

M

CHAPTER XVII.

SOME OLD SEA-DOGS.

DEN'S sojourn in the old Dutch house, and the boys' yarns, bring us to a chapter in these truthful annals of an old-world fishing village, relating to some of the old salts of Marshton, and a romance connected with one who was for many years their foremost leader.

November had come in rough-"werry rough," the old people said. The harbour was crowded with craft-schooners, brigs, and fishing-boats—that had run in from sea when the storm was coming on. Threatenings of what was on the way had been heard for a day or two. Folks who live by the sea know well the meaning of those mysterious sounds that come from no man knows where, and pass away

over the surface of the deep. The water-birds also had indicated plainly by their cries and their actions that the only safe course was to run in for shelter on the first harbour-tide. The divers cry and wail, for they know well how they will be put about when the storm comes in all its wild fury; their fishing-banks will be mere masses of fierce, boiling quicksands. Woe betide the craft that runs on to one of these, she will soon be in a sorry plight! A vessel will strike and break up in pieces like a match-box, amid the sands in weather such as this.

The gulls had come inland in flocks, covering the marshes and fields on some of the upland farms like rooks. Great poplars bent as fishing-rods when the fierce gusts swept over the flats, tearing some of them up by the roots, and causing the lonely marsh folks, thinly scattered here and there in the more sheltered spots, to look well at their reed-thatched roofs and narrow leadlight windows. Glass being dear in those days, and many of their dwellings miles away from any town, smashed-in windows meant money, of which valuable commodity they had but little.

They said heavy weather was coming up, and told all they met on the flats whose stock was out to

house them in shelter quickly. All the craft belonging to the place were safe in harbour-except the Gull, the lightest and smartest brig that ever sailed from Marshton. She floated on the water as easily as the bird she was named after; only in one point she belied her name, for when the bird, dreading the tempest, made for the land, the craft made for the open sea, much to the wonder and consternation of some of the simpler-minded inhabitants of the fishing village. Her captain was called Blow-hard Nedor, as the folks pronounced it, "Blo'ard Ned." He was tall, lean as a greyhound and as muscular; with dark hair and keen grey eyes that saw things clearly which were dim to others.

All through the summer the Gull lay at her berth, as neat and trim as any yacht that ever spread canvas; not a thing out of order from her keel to her topmast. Old "Bandy," the ropemaker, generally had some good orders to execute for her during the bright summer weather-long ropes and short ropes, hawsers, and very long, fine lines about the thickness of a man's little finger.

A great smoker, but a small talker, was Bandy; all that his neighbours could ever draw out of him,

when they were curious about the jobs he was executing for Blo'ard Ned, was, "'Tis the best kind o' stuff as ken be got fur love or money as is used on this 'ere tacklin', an' it's fur the Gull; she wants more gear."

No one made gear in the rope line for her except Bandy; but there were many other little articles required for her which were not in his way-ironwork, for instance, of a peculiar construction, and which was made by one blacksmith only, as good a craftsman for strong, plain work as ever made anvil ring. He rejoiced in the name of Snoovey. The boys used to creep round to his smithy when it was dark and yell out "Snoovey - Snoovey - SnooveSnoovey!" to the music of his anvil. They found. immense delight in that vocal exercise, and his opinions on the subject did not trouble or deter them; they were quickly out of reach when he began to give vent to them. It was noticed, however, by those who happened to call in at his smithy just after he had been serenaded with the tune of "SnooveySnoove!" that his hammer would be swung about in a decidedly wild and warlike manner two or three times over his head, and his language grew as fiery