182 WITHIN AN HOUR OF LONDON TOWN. 



all about the storm that was brewing, and had 

 come into the quiet marsh to hearken as it came up 

 over the dreary flats. Then I would creep into 

 some old crone's dwelling, and sit listening with 

 fear, mixed with a gruesome delight, to the stories 

 of long-past storms and the havoc they had wrought 

 amongst our folk. And when the narrator paused 

 to take breath and some strong puffs at her short 

 black pipe, I thought of my friends Scoot and 

 Winder outside with their father's boats, and pic- 

 tured them drowned and driven up ashore to their 

 mothers' doors. 



Somehow, in my boyish fancy, the idea of the 

 cob was always associated, too, with those daring 

 old sea-dogs, incorrigible smugglers, the heroes of 

 our lads, one or two of whom flashed only like 

 occasional meteors across our horizon, running 

 ashore at our port from time to time, then vanish- 

 ing and being unheard of for years. When such a 

 visitant was in our midst, his presence was felt in 

 every dwelling on the flats, and the social atmos- 

 phere seemed charged with an electricity that was 

 an unmixed source of joy, to the younger members 

 at least of the community. 



