Mr. Percival Jones was making quite a little ceremony of consigning
his brandy and cigars to the waves. He had composed "a little effort"
upon it which began,
"O deeps, receive these objects vile,
Which nevermore mine eyes shall soil."
He went down to the edge of the sea and, taking a bottle in each hand,
held them out at arms' length, while he began in his high-pitched
voice,
"O deeps, receive these----"
He stopped. A small boy stood beside him, holding out at him the point
of what in the semi-darkness Mr. Jones took to be a loaded rifle.
William mistook his action in holding out the bottles.
"It's no good tryin' to drink it up," he said severely. "We've caught
you smugglin'."
Mr. Percival Jones laughed nervously.
"My little man!" he said, "that's a very dangerous--er--thing for you
to have! Suppose you hand it over to me, now, like a good little
chap."
William recognised his voice.
[Illustration: "WE'VE CAUGHT YOU SMUGGLING!" WILLIAM SAID SEVERELY.]
"Fancy you bein' a smuggler all the time!" he said with righteous
indignation in his voice.
"Take away that--er--nasty gun, little boy," pleaded his captive
plaintively.
"You--ah--don't understand it. It--er--might go off."
William was not a boy to indulge in half measures. He meant to carry
the matter off with a high hand.
"I'll shoot you dead," he said dramatically, "if you don't do jus'
what I tell you.
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