again the sharp flare-light is seen; but no aid comes.  The cargo is landed at high-water mark; they realize something is wrong, and hesitate whether to re-ship or re-embark without it.  They are soon disillusioned.  A horse gallops madly from the south.  The rider shouts at the top of his voice, “Run, sailors, run!  Treachery!” and then heads his horse full speed in the direction he came from, and is soon lost to view.  The men push their boat into the sea, and row with all their might towards the vessel.  Bullets from a score of muskets whiz over their heads; but they are accustomed to this, and lay their backs into the oars with increased vigour.  Meanwhile, a coble sails almost peacefully alongside their ill-fated craft.  In an instant a crowd of concealed men rush aboard and call out, “Surrender!” But smugglers were not given to surrender when merely requested, so a hand-to-hand fight took place.  The butt-end of muskets were freely used, and to some purpose.  There was no heroic effort to get at the powder magazine, so that they might blow themselves and everybody else up.

The lugger was in undisputed possession of the Revenue men before the boat from the shore reached her.  They, too, were quickly disposed of, after a short, angry, though feeble resistance.  Stringent precautions were taken to prevent any blowing-up exploits.  The whole gang were well secured against that, and any other hostile outbreaks.  This having been done to the satisfaction of the officer in charge, the anchor was weighed, a course was shaped towards the south, and the last of the low, black, romantic luggers, with their gallant crews, passed away, never more to be seen on this part of the coast.

Recognition of the deeds done by the dauntless heroes of that age in the Government service was very scanty.  It may be they did not expect it.  In that case they were rarely disappointed.  Thomas Turnbull seems to have got his reward in being allowed to remain on the station until the time came to retire on a pension.  He went about his routine work with placid regularity, and devoted what leisure he had to widening his reading, which consisted mainly of history, theology, and Burns’s poems.  He was never known to miss his class-meeting, and travelled eight miles each way to keep his pulpit appointments on Sundays.  He sometimes entertained his family and the young folk that visited them by relating his experiences with the smugglers, but his greatest pleasure was in holding religious meetings in one or other of the fishers’ cottages.  In this he was gratuitously aided by Jimmy Stone, who entered into his work with energy, zeal, and oftentimes amazing resource.  Jimmy had developed a form of religious mania, insisting on the theory that he was, as a preacher, a direct descendant of the Apostles.  This assumption severely taxed the Christian virtues of the little society.  Turnbull, who had a keen sense of humour, viewed the new situation with intense amusement, and always excused the foibles of his old convert up to the time of leaving the district to end his own eventful career within easy reach of his family, who were all grown-up and doing well.  Jimmy did not long survive him, but he lived long enough to see the passing away of that spiritual wave that had changed his whole life.