I had received information that a certain smuggler of repute expected a big consignment of opium, and that it would reach his house sometime during the night and be concealed there. It was about nine o’clock in the evening when I set out, clad in an old grey suit, cap, and muffler, for the smuggler’s house, intending to conceal myself somewhere near, and watch proceedings. As I entered the quarter where the smuggler lived, I was accosted by two beat constables who suggested that I was a member of the crew of one of the tramp steamers then lying in the harbour. After apparently satisfying them of my identity, I continued on my way, and was soon ensconced under a large tree, with the smuggler’s house and compound in full view. I had not been there an hour, when I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and looking round, was not a little annoyed to find the beat constables again on my track. They had spotted me in the gloom of the tree, and being suspicious, had come to see who I was. To me it seemed that there was nothing to be gained after this by continuing the watch, and so, roundly abusing the two inquisitive myrmidons of the law, I went home. I was later to regret my unkindness to my two preservers, for that, indeed, they proved to be. Next morning I was called upon by one of my spies, who handed me a wicked looking dagger with a blade at least five inches long.
“Sahib,” he replied, “if it had not been for the two policemen that disturbed your watch last night, that dagger would have taken your life. While you watched, there was one who watched you with this dagger. When the two policemen came along, he dropped the weapon and made off.”
No name was given, and it would have done no good to have taken proceedings against my would-be assailant, even if I had known his name. Such things are all in the day’s work. But I had the satisfaction the same day of going down to the smuggler’s house and unearthing over a maund of his opium. It is true that he got off at the trial on a technical point, but he lost a great deal of money, actually and potentially, and I felt I had called quits to the person who was the instigator of my attempted murder.
Taken all round, I think it must be admitted that the smuggler is a sportsman, in the sense that he plays a hazardous game at great personal risk, at the risk of his fortune, and against great odds. It is true that he takes all the care he can to minimize risks, but he can never hope entirely to eliminate the element of danger; and if his game be divested of all its peccancy, and most of its immorality, we discover in it the essentials of what goes to make horse-racing so popular a “sport” all over the civilized world. What is it that attracts millions to a race-course? Money! The desire to get money coupled with the excitement of the game. Out of every thousand persons who go to a race-meeting, nine hundred and ninety-nine go to gain money under feverishly exciting conditions, and _one_ to see the horses run. Spanish bull-fighting however it may please the Spaniard, can never be otherwise than disgusting to an Englishman. But however shocked an Englishman might be at the ruin the smuggler causes to thousands of his fellow-men, he can never feel for the smuggler the contempt which he feels for the gaudy and bespangled Toreador. He recognizes that the smuggler is playing a dangerous game, sustained by the arts of a subtle intellect, and that he also possesses the qualities which go to make a good fighter.