e, with a
droll half-suspicious smile.

"No; it's a Schenk Haus, I suppose," replied I.

"Yes, to be sure, it is a Schenk Haus, but it's the resort only of
smugglers, and those connected with their traffic. Every man about
you, and there are, as you see, some seventy or eighty, are all, either
sea-faring folks, or landsmen associated with them, in contraband
trade."

"But how is this done so openly? the house is surely known to the
police."

"Of course, and they are well paid for taking no notice of it."

"And you?"

"Me! Well, _I_ do a little that way too, though it's only a branch of my
business. I'm only Dirk Hatteraik, when I come down to the coast: then
you know a man doesn't like to be idle; so that when I'm here, or on
the Bretagny shore, I generally mount the red cap, and buckle on the
cutlass, just to keep moving; as when I go inland, I take an occasional
turn with the gypsy folk in Bohemia, or their brethren, in the Basque
provinces: nothing like being up to every thing--that's, _my_ way."

I confess I was a good deal surprised at my companion's account of
himself, and not over impressed with the rigour of his principles; but
my curiosity to know more of him, became so much the stronger.

"Well," said I, "you seem to have a jolly life of it; and, certainly a
healthful one."

"Aye, that it is," replied he quickly. "I've more than once thought of
going back to Kerry, and living quietly for the rest of my days, for I
could afford it well enough; but, somehow, the thought of staying in one
place, talking always to the same set of people, seeing every day the
same sights, and hearing the same eternal little gossip about little
things, and little folk, was too much for me, and so I stuck to the old
trade, which I suppose I'll not give up now as long as I live."

"And what may that be?" asked I, curious to know how he filled up
moments snatched from the agreeable pursuits he had already mentioned.

He eyed me with a shrewd, suspicious look, for above a minute, and then,
laying his hand on my arm, said--

"Where do you put up at, here in Antwerp?"

"The St. Antoine.'"

"Well, I'll come over for you to-morrow evening about nine o'clock;
you're not engaged, are you?"

"No, I've no acquaintance here."

"At nine, then, be ready, and you'll come and take a bit of supper with
me; and, in exchange for your news of the old country, I'll tell you
something of my career."

I readily assented to a proposal