five minutes earlier."

He leaned back against the wall of the passage. "And you brought him
here _by accident?_ Well, if this don't beat cock-fighting!"

"But who is this Moll Whiteaway?" I repeated.

The question again seemed to take his breath away. For answer he
could only point to a small brass plate in the lower flap of the
door; and, stooping, I read: _Miss Whiteaway, Milliner, Modes and
Robes_.

"Oh!" said I. "That accounts for the band-box of flowers."

"Does it?" he asked.

"She flung them out of window to the packet-men."

"Which, doubtless, seemed to you an everyday proceeding--just a
milliner's usual way of getting rid of her summer stock. My good
young sir, did you ever hear tell of a 'troacher'? Nay, spare that
ingenuous blush: Moll is a loose fish, but I mean less than your
modesty suspects. A 'troacher' is a kind of female smuggler that
disposes of the goods the packet-men bring home in their bunks; and
Moll Whiteaway is the head of the profession in Falmouth. Now, our
worthy Mayor took oath the other day to put down this smuggling on
board the packets; and he began yesterday with the _Townshend_.
He and the Port Searcher swept the ship, sir. They dug Portuguese
brandy in kegs out of the seamen's beds and parcels of silk out of
the very beams. They shook two case-bottles out of the chaplain's
breeches, which must have galled him sorely in his devotions.
They netted close on two hundred pounds' worth of contraband in the
fo'c's'le alone--"

"Good Heavens!" I interjected. "And as the riot began he was calling
himself short-sighted!"

Captain Bright laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and led the way
upstairs, where (strange to say) we found the Mayor again deploring
his defective vision. He lay in an easy-chair amid an army of
band-boxes, bonnet stands, and dummies representing the female
figure; and sipped Miss Whiteaway's brandy while he discoursed in
broken sentences to an audience consisting of that lady, my father,
Nat Fiennes, Mr. Fett, and the little man in black (who, by the way,
did not appear to be listening, but stood and pondered the borough
mace, which he held in his hands, turning it over and examining the
dents).

"It is a great drawback, Sir John--a great drawback," his Worship
lamented. "A man in my position, sir, should have the eye of an
eagle; instead of which on all public occasions I have to rely on
John Sprott. My good woman"--he turned to Miss Whiteaway