"Why don't you talk to a fellow ?" No one answered, and Bob turned sulky and went and sat on the front of the cart, where he began to whistle.
"What do you mean by being worse ?" I said.
Bigley shook his head.
"I don't know; I can't say," he whispered.

"I mean I don't want father to be very cross." "I say, Big," I whispered.

"Your father really is a smuggler, isn't he ?" Bigley looked sharply round to gaze at old Teggley Grey and Bob Chowne, creeping as he did so nearer to the tail-board of the cart, and I followed him.
"I oughtn't to tell," he whispered back.
"But you'll tell me.

I won't say a word to a soul," I said.
"Well, I don't know.

I'm not sure, but--" Bigley paused, and looked round again before putting his lips close to my ear and whispering softly: "I think he is." "I'm sure of it," I whispered back; "and I know he goes out in his lugger to meet French boats and Dutch boats, and makes no end of money by smuggling." "Who told you that ?" whispered Bigley fiercely.
"Nobody.