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Jack Rangsley was a tall, big-boned, thin man, with something sinister in the lines of his horseman's cloak, and something reckless in the way he set his spurred heel on the ground. He was the son of an old Marsh squire. Old Rangsley had been head of the last of the Owlers the aristocracy of export smugglers and Jack had sunk a little in becoming the head of the Old Bourne Tap importers.
Thus, in the home trade in England: if in Kent a man tells me he is to go among the night-riders, his meaning is, he is to go a-carrying wool to the sea-shore the people that usually run the wool off in boats, are called owlers those that steal customs, smugglers, and the like.
The French take very little from England in a fair way, dealing chiefly with owlers, or those that clandestinely export wool and fuller's-earth, &c. They indeed buy some of our tobacco, sugar, tin, lead, coals, a few stuffs, serges, flannels, and a small matter of broad-cloth.
He told her of the smugglers and owlers who had used the Woolpack as their headquarters long ago, riding by moonlight to the cross-roads, with their mouths full of slang cant talk of "mackerel" and "fencing" and "hornies" and "Oliver's glim." "Well, if they talked worse there then than they talk now, they must have talked very bad indeed," was all Joanna found to say.
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