The Squire, always influenced by what Christopher said, was only too eager to be cheered up, and so saying that Christopher was probably right, he asked for a drink.
Thinking that his old friend had already drunk more than was good for him, Doctor Syn said he was extremely sorry but that he couldn’t oblige, adding apologetically: ‘We made rather a night of it, you know. Even my small cellar will need replenishing.’
The Squire was most upset at this and asked him why the devil he had not said so before. ‘Here we’ve been sittin’ about, talkin’ and shiverin’.’ All his old grievances came back with a rush and he sneezed violently, announcing, as though it were a Christopher’s fault: ‘There, I knew I’d catch a cold on that lawn.’ There was only one thing for it. They must go home and open another bin. And in order to carry out this excellent idea he went with all possible haste to the front door, and, flinging it open, found that his way was impeded, for there on the doorstep were two large casks. Annoyed at not being able to get out, but equally mystified as to why such things should be outside the door instead of in their proper place, he reminded Christopher that he had said there was nothing in his cellar.
Doctor Syn remarked that there was nothing in his cellar but there certainly seemed to be something on his doorstep, which gave the Squire a brilliant idea.
‘I say, Christopher,’ he whispered. ‘P’raps they’ve left them. You know who I mean. They.’ Then, not liking to admit to the possibility of their existence, he mouthed the word ‘Smugglers’.
An even better thought then struck him. ‘Come on, Christopher. Let’s bring ’em in.’
Doctor Syn, however, seemed doubtful, suggesting that this was a matter for the Revenue man, at which Sir Antony was highly indignant, saying that he didn’t like the Revenue man anyway, and that he would handle this himself, and that it was a very good thing, since they could have a drink now, and wouldn’t have to wait till they got home.
So, telling Doctor Syn in his best judicial manner to report this to him in the morning, he set to work pushing and pulling at one of the barrels, speculating the while as to its contents.
‘Hope it’s not rum,’ he grunted; ‘don’t like rum. Her Ladyship can always tell.’
After a deal of struggling, in which Mr. Mipps had been summoned to assist, both barrels were successfully manœuvred into the room, and at the Squire’s orders the door was closed to prevent anyone ‘pryin’ in while he was investigatin’!’
Heated from his exertions, he could hardly wait to tap the barrels, and Mr. Mipps having conveniently produced a spigot with the necessary implements, he was delightedly setting to work when he noticed some roughly chalked writing on the side of the casks.
‘Hallo, who’s been chalkin’ on our barrels?’ he cried.
‘Looks as if they are your barrels, sir,’ said Mr. Mipps, who was on his hands and knees peering at the writing. ‘This one says “For our Parson with
C.O.M.P.S. from Scarecrow”. What does this one say?’ Mr. Mipps crawled round to the other. ‘“For our S.Q.U.I.R.T.” Squirt? ’Ope that don’t mean you, sir.’
Preferring to receive the insult with the barrel rather than without it, the Squire replied indignantly that of course it meant him. ‘Bad spellin’ — that’s all,’ and added that it was a waste of time standing about spelling when they might be drinking, and that for his part he was going to open his right away.’
At that moment there was a loud knocking on the door while from outside came what were obviously noises of the military. ‘Confound it, Christopher,’ grumbled the Squire, his thirst thwarted, ‘why can’t you have your callers at the proper time?’
Mr. Mipps, already at the spy-hole, whispered dramatically: ‘It’s the Dragoons, sir.’
Sir Antony, fearing that the Law might cheat him of his drink, asked Mr. Mipps to tell them to go away. ‘Never asked ’em here. Tell ’em to go home.’
This seemed easy enough till the full horror of the situation dawned upon him. Here he was, the Chief Magistrate, receiving smuggled goods. ‘Damned embarrasin’.’
‘I think we had better find out what they want, Tony,’ said Doctor Syn calmly. ‘The door, Mr. Mipps.’
Sir Antony, nearly crying with vexation, endeavoured to disguise his own barrel by draping himself round it, then finding that he was still holding the spigot, he endeavoured to hide such incriminating evidence, trying first one pocket, then another, and finally sticking it up his waistcoat, where it bulged most uncomfortably. By this time the door was open and Major Faunce and his Sergeant had come in.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the Major, addressing Doctor Syn, ‘but I was told I should find Mr. Hyde at your house.’
Doctor Syn greeted the soldier pleasantly and told him that Mr. Hyde had been gone for some little time. Then seeing that both the soldiers were caked in mud, he asked innocently if they had been fighting. To which the Major replied that ‘paddling’ would be a better description. He sounded and looked most aggrieved, explaining that they had been up to their necks in mud; in and out dykes halfway round Kent, and that he was positive monkey business had been going on with the signposts; that he had lost his men all but two, in this confounded mist, and hadn’t seen a sign of any smuggling; and it was all the fault of that meddling fool of a Revenue man sending them off on a wild-goose chase. He then apologized for his outburst, adding that that was why he wanted a few words with Nicholas Hyde.
Doctor Syn was most sympathetic, and remarking that the Major certainly seemed to have had a trying evening, asked him if he would care for a drink, while the Squire, who had been endeavouring, behind the Major’s back, to hide both himself and his barrel beneath the window curtain, and indeed had nearly succeeded, inwardly cursed Christopher for a forgetful fool, and made frantic signals in protest.
‘Thank ’ee, Parson,’ returned the Major, cheering up at the prospect of good drinking in pleasant company. ‘Very civil of you.’
‘You look as if you could do with something stronger than Marsh water, eh, Sergeant?’ laughed the Vicar.
Major Faunce, thus relaxed, took a glance round the room, and perceiving the Squire in the shadow by the bow window, advanced to greet him, catching sight of the barrels as he went.
‘Good evening, Squire,’ he said, bowing formally, to which the Squire could not respond owing to the stiffness of his waistcoat. Perhaps it was the Squire’s embarrassment which prompted Major Faunce to give closer inspection to the barrels, and upon reading the chalked inscriptions he became grave.
‘So, gentlemen, I see that you have had other visitors here tonight besides Mr. Hyde and ourselves, and we sent off to the other side of the country — misled on purpose, I see. Nice little plot.’ He warmed to the subject as he recollected the discomfort to which the Revenue man’s stupidity had put them. But on second thought, was it stupidity? Duplicity might be the better word. Possibly Mr. Hyde was not averse to a noggin of smuggled brandy and a bag of guineas as a bribe, and he’d be in good company, too. Perhaps they were all in it, against him. So he said aloud: ‘I’m afraid this looks mighty suspicious, Parson.’
The Squire seemed a trifle over-anxious to explain, and as always when he tried to use his best official tone, he became involved and ended up lamely that he was going out when the barrels bumped into him and he couldn’t leave ’em there doin’ nothin’.
This time, however, Doctor Syn helped him out and tried to straighten the matter, saying: ‘I assure you, Major Faunce, we know nothing about it. We have had a quiet evening here discussing parochial affairs, and as the Squire has just told you, we found them in the doorway. Naturally, as Lord of the Level, he wished to make an investigation at once, and —’
‘Much to your surprise you discover they are addressed to you!’ interrupted the Major.
Doctor Syn replied that that was exactly what he was about to say, adding: ‘So you see, Major, we are jsut as much in the dark about it as you are.’