The new minister found all this out when he came.  He did not greatly object.  It was, he said, no part of his business to collect King George’s dues.  But he did object when the running of a vessel’s cargo became the signal for half his parishioners settling themselves to a fortnight of black, solemn, evil-hearted drinking.  He said that he would break up these colloguings.  He would not have half the wives in the parish coming to his kirk with black eyes upon the Lord’s Sabbath day.

The parish of Dour laughed.  But the parish of Dour was to get news of the minister, for Abraham Ligartwood was not a man to trifle with.

One night there was a fine cargo cleanly run at Port Saint Johnston, the village next to Dour.  It was got as safely off.  The “lingtowmen” went out, and there was the jangling of hooked chains along all the shores; then the troll of the smugglers’ song as the cavalcade struck inwards through the low shore-hills for the main free-trade route to Edinburgh and Glasgow.  The king’s preventive men had notice, and came down as usual three hours late.  Then they seized ten casks of the best Bordeaux, which had been left for the purpose on the sand.  They were able and intelligent officers—­in especial the latter.  And they had an acute perception of the fact that if their bread was to be buttered on both sides, it were indeed well not to let it fall.

This cargo-running and seizures were all according to rule, and the minister of Dour had nothing to say.  But at night seventeen of his kirk members in good standing and fourteen adherents met at the Back Spital of Port Dour to drink prosperity to the cargo which had been safely run.  There was an elder in the chair, and six unbroached casks on a board in the corner.

There was among those who assembled some word of scoffing merriment at the expense of the minister.  Abraham Ligartwood had preached a sermon on the Sabbath before, which each man, as the custom was, took home and applied to his neighbour.

“Ay man, Mains, did ye hear what the minister said aboot ye?  O man, he was sair on ye!”

“Hoot na, Portmark, it was yersel’ he was hittin’ at, and the black e’e ye gied Kirsty six weeks syne.”

But when the first keg was on the table, and the men, each with his pint-stoup before him, had seated themselves round, there came a knocking at the door—­loud, insistent, imperious.  Each man ran his hand down his side to the loaded whip or jockteleg (the smuggler’s sheath-knife) which he carried with him.

But no man was in haste to open the door.  The red coats of King George’s troopers might be on the other side.  For no mere gauger or preventive man would have the assurance to come chapping on Portmark’s door in that fashion.

“Open the door in the name of Most High God!” cried a loud, solemn voice they all knew.  The seventeen men and an elder quaked through all their inches; but none moved.  Writs from the authority mentioned did not run in the parish of Dour.