“I have heard of Captain Fall, of course,” replied Minnie, “for it was not many years before I was born that his visit took place, and Mrs. Brand has often told me of the consternation into which the town was thrown by his doings; but I never heard of the deeds of the Ogilvy to whom you refer.”

“No?  Now, that is surprising!  How comes it, captain, that you have kept so silent on this subject?”

“’Cause it ain’t true,” replied the captain stoutly, yet with a peculiar curl about the corners of his mouth, that implied something in the mind beyond what he expressed with the lips.

“Ah!  I see—­modesty,” said Lindsay.  “Your uncle is innately modest, Miss Gray, and never speaks of anything that bears the slightest resemblance to boasting.  See, the grave solemnity with which he smokes while I say this proves the truth of my assertion.  Well, since he has never told you, I will tell you myself.  You have no objection, captain?”

The captain sent a volume of smoke from his lips, and followed it up with—­

“Fire away, shipmet.”

The lieutenant, having drawn a few whiffs in order to ensure the continued combustion of his pipe, related the following anecdote, which is now matter of history, as anyone may find by consulting the archives of Arbroath.

“In the year 1781, on a fine evening of the month of May, the seamen of Arbroath who chanced to be loitering about the harbour observed a strange vessel manoeuvring in the offing.  They watched and commented on the motions of the stranger with considerable interest, for the wary skill displayed by her commander proved that he was unacquainted with the navigation of the coast, and from the cut of her jib they knew that the craft was a foreigner.  After a time she took up a position, and cast anchor in the bay, directly opposite the town.

“At that time we were, as we still are, and as it really appears likely to me we ever shall be, at war with France; but as the scene of the war was far removed from Arbroath, it never occurred to the good people that the smell of powder could reach their peaceful town.  That idea was somewhat rudely forced upon them when the French flag was run up to the mizzen-top, and a white puff of smoke burst from the vessel, which was followed by a shot, that went hissing over their heads, and plumped right into the middle of the town!

“That shot knocked over fifteen chimney-pots and two weathercocks in Market-gate, went slap through a house in the suburbs, and finally stuck in the carcass of an old horse belonging to the Provost of the town, which didn’t survive the shock—­the horse, I mean, not the Provost.

“It is said that there was an old gentleman lying in bed in a room of the house that the shot went through.  He was a sort of ‘hipped’ character, and believed that he could not walk, if he were to try ever so much.  He was looking quietly at the face of a great Dutch clock when the shot entered and knocked the clock inside out, sending its contents in a shower over the old gentleman, who jumped up and rushed out of the house like a maniac!  He was cured completely from that hour.  At least, so it’s said, but I don’t vouch for the truth of the story.