dogs basking in the heat; and a knot of lads, sitting under the shade
of a boat, were discussing with some warmth the question of smuggling.

"What do you say to it, Jim Walsham?" one of the party said, looking up
at a boy some twelve years old, who was leaning against a boat, but who
had hitherto taken no part in the discussion.

"There is no doubt that it's wrong," the boy said. "Not wrong like
stealing, and lying, and that sort of thing; still it's wrong, because
it's against the law; and the revenue men, if they come upon a gang
landing the tubs, fight with them, and if any are killed they are not
blamed for it, so there is no doubt about its being wrong. Then, on the
other hand, no one thinks any the worse of the men that do it, and
there is scarce a one, gentle or simple, as won't buy some of the stuff
if he gets a chance, so it can't be so very wrong. It must be great fun
to be a smuggler, to be always dodging the king's cutters, and running
cargoes under the nose of the officers ashore. There is some excitement
in a life like that."

"There is plenty of excitement in fishing," one of the boys said
sturdily. "If you had been out in that storm last March, you would have
had as much excitement as you liked. For twelve hours we expected to go
down every minute, and we were half our time bailing for our lives."

An approving murmur broke from the others, who were all, with the
exception of the one addressed as Jim Walsham, of the fisher class. His
clothing differed but little from that of the rest. His dark blue pilot
trousers were old and sea stained, his hands and face were dyed brown
with exposure to the sun and the salt water; but there was something,
in his manner and tone of voice, which showed that a distinction