Bandy's lines were very long too, capable of trippingup a whole line of runners.

A shot, another pistol-shot, and then comes the boom of duck-guns in quick time, one after the other; and now the sound of a horse at his top speed is heard. Listen to the momentary pauses in the beat of his hoofs as he takes the dykes. On the bold rider comes, nearer and nearer; he clears the last dyke and turns for the other marsh. Two dogs, long-dogs, run by his side. They look large, as though they had something wrapped round them. Once more the clouds break; and, by all the eels that ever were caught, if that mare is not Flying Kit!

Betwixt one and two the inhabitants of the village were roused from their sleep by the sound of horses galloping through the long street and the cries of men in fierce pursuit. On and away, they reach the bridge. Splash-a succession of splashes! The low hedge is cleared; they are on the soft turf, and each man walks his horse under the shadow of the alder and willow thicket. Then all is still. Unseen hands have taken their horses, and their riders have glided like ghosts into the white, ghost-like mill.

Two days later the Gull showed in sight and made the mid-day harbour-tide. She was boarded before she left the creek's mouth-the first time such a

thing had happened. Rumour had said that a vessel, her very second self, only grey in colour, had been seen chased by a revenue-cutter, which had fired on her; and that she was then making for the French coast under every stitch of canvas she could carry.

Captain Ned, courteous as ever, listened to the rumour without the least expression of surprise, and without comment.

"Do your duty, gentlemen," was all he said when the revenue men boarded the Gull.

They found nothing-not even a pipeful of foreign tobacco or one foreign cigar. As to silks, laces, or spirituous liquors, such an idea was ridiculous!

The Gull had been in harbour one week after the above event took place, when, to the unbounded surprise of all, she was declared to be for sale. Captain Ned said he had no further use for her; he was going to settle down for good.

Sold she was. All knew her sea going capabilities, and those who had the money bid eagerly for her.

Blo'ard Ned's bold crew turned fishermen, each man becoming owner of a good stout boat-the gift, it was said, of their old master. However that may have been, they were still to be seen-faithful old dogs as they were-keeping watch before the house of their former commander.

For the benefit of those who may be curious to know what Captain Ned's end was, we can tell them that he died respected and regretted by numerous friends and admirers. We point no moral. These are but longshore sketches of smuggling days. "Handsome Hannah" did not long survive her husband; but that name was for years later a household word in many a marshland home where she had taken comfort and gladness.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A NIGHT ON THE FLATS.

"IF you want a shot at black geese, come with me to-night, down past Standgate Creek: it's light o' nights now, and the tide serves right for it. There's clouds of 'em feedin' on the sea-grass."

So spake Den's fishing and fowling friend commonly known by the name of "Finny," by reason of being by far the best fisherman in our out-of-theworld hamlet in the salt marshes of North Kent. A genuine old sea-dog he was, and equally at home with net, long line, or duck-gun. In the stormiest weather, such as would have kept most of our fishing folk on shore, Fin was apparently in his element. He was a few years older than Den, and his companion and guide in many an expedition on the

flats and along the shore, being well versed in all the quags and swamps of our treacherous marshes. The spots Finny fought shy of, all others gave a wide berth to.

"Yes, Fin, I will go, and be glad to. Where do they feed?"

"About the spit 'twixt Standgate and Chesney: they gits mostly on and about the ooze and slub round Halstow, and from there to Rainham; very often they goes right away, clean out to sea. 'Tain't often they comes in like this, but there's rattlin' good feed fur 'em about that spit; the ooze and slub there is covered, like a thick carpet, with sea-grass what they likes. They won't leave it, now they've found it, ye may depend on't.”

The place Finny spoke of was one of the most lonely spots on our lonely coast. The spit was a point of marshland running out into the water, dividing the lands of two marsh graziers. The wash of the tide round it had formed two bays, so that if there were a boat in each bay, the spit would most effectually hide the occupants of one boat from those of the other. It was raised about ten feet above the water on one side-the side that they intended shooting