"You know, Jack," said he, after gulping down nearly half the newly-mixed
tumbler, by way of sample, "you know that our family can lay no claim to
antiquity; in fact, our pedigree ascends no higher, according to the most
authentic records, than Shawn Duffy, my grandfather, who rented a small
patch of ground on the sea-coast, which was such a barren, unprofitable
spot, that it was then, and is to this day, called 'The Devil's Half-acre.'
And well it merited the name, for if poor Shawn was to break his heart at
it, he never could get a better crop than thistles or ragweed off it. But
though the curse of sterility seemed to have fallen on the land, Fortune,
in order to recompense Shawn for Nature's niggardliness, made the caverns
and creeks of that portion of the coast which bounded his farm towards the
sea the favourite resort of smugglers. Shawn, in the true spirit of
Christian benevolence, was reputed to have favoured those enterprising
traders in their industry, by assisting to convey their cargoes into the
interior of the country. It was on one of those expeditions, about five
o'clock on a summer's morning, that a gauger unluckily met my grandfather
carrying a bale of tobacco on his back."

Here my uncle paused in his recital, and leaning across the table till his
mouth was close to my ear, said, in a confidential whisper--

"Jack, do _you_ consider killing a gauger--murder?"

"Undoubtedly, sir."

"You do?" he replied, nodding his head significantly. "Then heaven forgive
my poor grandfather. However, it can't be helped now. The gauger was found
dead, with an ugly fracture in his skull, the next day; and, what was
rather remarkable, Shawn Duffy began to thrive in the world from that time
forward. He was soon able to take an extensive farm, and, in a little time,