side of the river, and as far from the port of entry as it was possible to get, and reaching a point on the banks where the cargo was to be discharged, while the folks on shore were all nicely sleeping.  The Squire, of course, had said his prayers, or, as it sometimes would happen—­though it was always accidental—­had gone to Digby, for the purpose of giving her Majesty’s Collector a ride into the country.  The Collector was always an imported gentleman, who maintained a good deal of imported dignity, which the Nova Scotians had to ‘tip’ out of him, ere he became a clever fellow, according to their notion of such a being.  In addition to taking the Collector a short pleasure trip into the country, the Squire had a nigger fellow, of the name of Tom, who, as cunning as a fox, could tell the Dash was coming, by something he always said he saw was in the clouds.  Tom lived on Pin Point, where the Squire had his half-way warehouse, always full of foreign goods, on which no one could tell how much duty had been paid.  This half-way warehouse, which Tom called his, used to atone for a monstrous quantity of sins.  The Squire, however, declared he had established it there, in the fulness of his generosity, merely to accommodate his kind customers, whose means of travelling did not enable them to reach his trading marts at either extreme.  But, when customers called at Pin-Point to do a little trading with the Squire, they generally found it closed, and Old Tom offering his very best apology, by saying it was where master only did his wholesale business.  This was accepted on the ground that the Squire and Tom were very funny individuals.  Well, we would run to the Point at night, and Tom having everything ready to move at the word, would shoot the Yankee goods into the warehouse, where, in six hours, they would be all transferred into real British growth and manufacture.  During this time the Squire was nowhere; but Tom did things as if he knew how.  Indeed no sooner were the goods out than we made the best of our way down the river again.

“Next morning, the sun about two hours up, you would see the Dash away down the bay, as calm as moonlight, just sighting Digby.  Squire—­totally ignorant of Hornblower’s arrival—­would be putting on the longest face in the town of Annapolis, going up and down the street quite disconsolate, and climbing into the church steeple to see if he could sight the Dash below.  ‘Hornblower’s gone this time!’ he would say, shaking his head, ’must be lost! must be lost! must be lost!’ And the Squire would tell about his horrid dream, seeing Hornblower’s ghost smuggling a chest of tea (real congou), and the Collector catching him on the spot.  ’Hornblower’s tricky—­he larnt it of the Yankees—­and I’m always afraid he’ll get cotched smuggling little things for himself.  What a blessing it is to have a clear conscience!’ he would say:  the last sentence referring to himself.

“But soon the knowing ones got an inkling of the Squire’s secrets, and when he mentioned the Dash in his prayers at morning, and walked the wharf after breakfast, muttering his misgivings, she was sure to arrive in the afternoon.  There was virtue in the Squire, but the citizens got the hang of it so well, that whenever I arrived at town they would say:  ‘It’s only Hornblower’s ghost.’