’Ah!  I’ve heard say the Whitgifts could see further through a millstone than most,’ said Shoesmith.  ‘Did she, now?’

‘She was honest-innocent of any nigromancin’,’ said Hobden.  ’Only she’d read signs and sinnifications out o’ birds flyin’, stars fallin’, bees hivin’, and such.  An, she’d lie awake—­listenin’ for calls, she said.’

‘That don’t prove naught,’ said Tom.  ’All Marsh folk has been smugglers since time everlastin’.  ‘Twould be in her blood to listen out o’ nights.’

‘Nature-ally,’ old Hobden replied, smiling.  ’I mind when there was smugglin’ a sight nearer us than what the Marsh be.  But that wasn’t my woman’s trouble.  ‘Twas a passel o’ no-sense talk’—­he dropped his voice—­’about Pharisees.’

’Yes.  I’ve heard Marsh men belieft in ’em.’  Tom looked straight at the wide-eyed children beside Bess.

‘Pharisees,’ cried Una.  ‘Fairies?  Oh, I see!’

‘People o’ the Hills,’ said the Bee Boy, throwing half of his potato towards the door.

‘There you be!’ said Hobden, pointing at him.  My boy—­he has her eyes and her out-gate sense.  That’s what she called ’em!’

‘And what did you think of it all?’

‘Um—­um,’ Hobden rumbled.  ‘A man that uses fields an’ shaws after dark as much as I’ve done, he don’t go out of his road excep’ for keepers.’

‘But settin’ that aside?’ said Tom, coaxingly.  ’I saw ye throw the Good Piece out-at-doors just now.  Do ye believe or—­do ye?’

‘There was a great black eye to that tater,’ said Hobden indignantly.

’My liddle eye didn’t see un, then.  It looked as if you meant it for—­for Any One that might need it.  But settin’ that aside, d’ye believe or—­do ye?’

‘I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, because I’ve heard naught, an’ I’ve see naught.  But if you was to say there was more things after dark in the shaws than men, or fur, or feather, or fin, I dunno as I’d go far about to call you a liar.  Now turnagain, Tom.  What’s your say?’

‘I’m like you.  I say nothin’.  But I’ll tell you a tale, an’ you can fit it as how you please.’

‘Passel o’ no-sense stuff,’ growled Hobden, but he filled his pipe.

‘The Marsh men they call it Dymchurch Flit,’ Tom went on slowly.  ’Hap you have heard it?’

‘My woman she’ve told it me scores o’ times.  Dunno as I didn’t end by belieftin’ it—­sometimes.’

Hobden crossed over as he spoke, and sucked with his pipe at the yellow lanthorn flame.  Tom rested one great elbow on one great knee, where he sat among the coal.

‘Have you ever bin in the Marsh?’ he said to Dan.

‘Only as far as Rye, once,’ Dan answered.