.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 39800
   :PG.Title: The Adventures of Dick Trevanion
   :PG.Released: 2013-06-01
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Herbert Strang
   :MARCREL.ill: W. Rainey
   :DC.Title: The Adventures of Dick Trevanion
              A Story of Eighteen Hundred and Four
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1911
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

================================
THE ADVENTURES OF DICK TREVANION
================================

.. clearpage::

.. pgheader::

.. container:: coverpage

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. _`Cover`:

   .. figure:: images/img-cover.jpg
      :align: center
      :alt: Cover

      Cover

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: frontispiece

   .. _`"THERE LOOMED OUT OF THE MIST A THREE-MASTED VESSEL"`:

   .. figure:: images/img-front.jpg
      :align: center
      :alt: "THERE LOOMED OUT OF THE MIST A THREE-MASTED VESSEL." (*See page* 175.)

      "THERE LOOMED OUT OF THE MIST A THREE-MASTED VESSEL." (*See page* `175`_.)

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: x-large

      THE ADVENTURES
      OF
      DICK TREVANION

   .. class:: large

      *A STORY OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FOUR*

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: medium

      BY
      HERBERT STRANG

   .. VSPACE:: 3

   .. CLASS:: small

      *ILLUSTRATED BY W. RAINEY, R.I.*

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

      LONDON
      HENRY FROWDE
      HODDER & STOUGHTON
      1911

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: small

      BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., LD., PRINTERS,
      LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.

   .. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large

   CONTENTS

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE FIRST
   `THE VILLAGE AND THE TOWERS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE SECOND
   `JOHN TREVANION RETURNS HOME`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE THIRD
   `THE BLOW FALLS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE FOURTH
   `THE CAVE OF SEALS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE FIFTH
   `ST. CUBY'S WELL`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE SIXTH
   `PENWARDEN DOES HIS DUTY`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
   `THE BREACH WIDENS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
   `A LIGHT ON THE MOOR`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE NINTH
   `DOUBLEDICK'S MIDNIGHT GUESTS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE TENTH
   `THE FIRE BELL AT THE TOWERS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
   `SIR BEVIL INTERVENES`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH
   `PENWARDEN DISAPPEARS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
   `CROSS-CURRENTS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH
   `DOUBLEDICK ON DUTY`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH
   `ACROSS THE PIT`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH
   `A PACKET FOR RUSCO`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
   `PETHERICK MAKES A DISCOVERY`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
   `A HIGH DIVE`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH
   `A BARGAIN WITH THE REVENUE`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH
   `THE LAST DEAL`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
   `THE ATTACK ON THE TOWERS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
   `JOHN TREVANION IN THE TOILS`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
   `THE PRICE OF TREACHERY`_

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
   `PEACE AND GOODWILL`_

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

`"THERE LOOMED OUT OF THE MIST A THREE-MASTED
VESSEL"`_ . . . . . . *Frontispiece, see page* `175`_

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

`"'HALT, IN THE KING'S NAME!' CRIED MR. MILDMAY"`_

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

`"'STAND!' CRIED DICK, DASHING FORWARD. 'LEAVE HIM,
OR WE'LL FIRE'"`_

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

`"AS THE SEAL PLUNGED INTO THE SEA, SAM BROUGHT
HIS HAMMER DOWN"`_

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

`"THERE WAS NO ONE TO HEAR THE SHORT DIALOGUE THAT
ENSUED AT THE HEAD OF THE WELL"`_

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

`"DICK RUSHED LIKE A WHIRLWIND ON THE MAN"`_

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

`"PETHERICK'S HEAD APPEARED THROUGH THE HATCH"`_

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

`"DELAROUSSE RUSHED HEADLONG TOWARDS THE APPROACHING GROUP"`_

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Village and the Towers`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE FIRST


.. class:: center medium

   The Village and the Towers

.. vspace:: 2

The village of Polkerran lies snugly in a hollow
between cliffs facing the Atlantic, at the head of a
little bay that forms a natural harbour.  The grey
stone cottages rise from the sea-level in tiers, as
in an amphitheatre, huddled together, with the
narrowest and most tortuous of lanes between them.
Through the midst a stream flows from the high
ground behind, in summer a mere brook, in winter
a swollen torrent that colours the sea far out with
the soil it carries down.  The bay is shaped like a
horseshoe; at low tide its mouth is closed by a reef
except at the northern end, where there is always a
narrow fairway between the reef and the sharp point
of land known as the Beal.  Northward of this is
another little inlet called Trevanion Bay, whence the
coast winds north-east, a line of rugged, precipitous,
and overhanging cliffs, unbroken until you come to
St. Cuby's Cove, where they reach a height of three
hundred feet, and bulge out over the sea like a
penthouse roof.

One August evening, in the year 1804, a wide
tubby boat lay in twelve feet of water, just outside
the line of breakers beneath the cliffs, about a mile
and a half from the village.  The sun had been
down some two hours, but there was enough of
twilight to show to any one out at sea—the boat
being invisible from the land—that it contained two
lads, one a tall, slight, but muscular youth of
seventeen or thereabouts, the other a thicker, sturdier
boy, who looked older, but was, in fact, a year or
more younger than his companion.

"Well, Maister Dick," said the younger boy, "I
reckon we'd better go home-along; it do seem as if
the water be too clear to-night."

"They're not on the feed, Sam, that's certain,"
replied Dick Trevanion.  "But I don't like going
empty-handed.  I'm thinking of supper."

"It do be queer, sure enough.  'Tis a hot night,
and they mostly comes in close when 'tis hot, and
the biggest comes the closest.  I 'spect what us do
want is a bit of a tumble, to stir up the bottom and
muddy the water."

Dick Trevanion had come out at sunset with his
companion Sam Pollex to fish for salmon bass, which
at this time of year were usually plentiful along the
coast.  For two hours they had had no luck.  Every
now and then a ripple and spirt on the smooth
surface showed that fish were sporting beneath; but
though they changed the bait, trying squid, pilchard,
spider-crab in turn; varied the length of line and
the weight of the lead; trailed the bait where they
last saw the surface disturbed—though they tried
every device known to them to lure the fish, they
had not as yet been rewarded with a single bite.  It
was exasperating.  Dick knew that the larder at
home was bare, and had set his heart on carrying
back two or three fish for supper and next morning's
breakfast.

"It will be high-water in half-an-hour," he said.
"We'll wait till then, and no longer."

Baiting his hook with cuttle-fish, he got Sam to
row slowly up the shore towards a spot where the
sea broke gently over a yard or two of half-submerged
rocks.  The air was very still; there was no sound
save the light rustle of the waves washing the foot
of the cliff.  As the sky darkened and the last faint
radiance vanished from the west, the stars appeared
and the shade beneath the cliff became deeper.  Sam
rowed up and down for some minutes, Dick hauling
in his line once or twice to see that the hook was not
fouled with sea-weed; but still there was no sign of
fish.

All at once, when he was on the point of giving
up, he felt a slight tug at the line, which began
immediately to slip through his fingers.

"At last!" he whispered, jumping to his feet
so hastily as to set the boat rocking.

He held the line loosely until a dozen yards had
run out, then tightened his grasp with a jerk.
Meanwhile Sam had thrown the anchor overboard.

"He's a whopper," said Dick, letting his line run
again.  "See; there he goes!"

He pointed to a slight phosphorescent glow on
the water about twenty yards away.  The line was
running out fast.  It was only a hundred yards long,
and he must check the rush of the fish, or he would
lose line and all.  Grasping the twine with both
hands, he exerted a steady strain, at one moment
being almost jerked out of the boat by the violent
struggles of the fish.  He set his feet against the
gunwale and pulled again.  With a suddenness that
threw him backwards the tension relaxed.

"He's gone, Sam!  He's torn away the hook," he cried.

"Scrounch un for a rebel!" said Sam indignantly.
"Why couldn't he bide quiet!"

Dick wound up his line rapidly, feeling no resistance
until he had recovered about thirty yards of it.
Then once more it began to slip away.

"He's not gone yet, Sam, after all.  I'll have
him, sure as I'm alive."

Steadily he worked the fish in.  For a few
moments he would draw in the line without resistance;
then there was a jerk; it swerved to right, to
left; and he could merely hold his own in the
desperate struggle.  But gradually, fight as the fish
might, it was drawn nearer and nearer to the boat.
At the broken water it spent its last energies;
phosphorescent flashes showed where it was dashing
to and fro in the vain effort to regain its liberty.
Then, its strength exhausted, it suffered itself to be
dragged slowly towards the boat.

Sam was eagerly on the watch, bending over the
gunwale to seize the fish as soon as it came alongside.
Suddenly he flung out his hands, only to draw them
back with a cry.  He had pricked them against the
fish's sharp dorsal fin.  Once more he stooped, and
as Dick hauled hard on the line, Sam got his arms
beneath the fish, and with a mighty heave cast it into
the bottom, where it struggled for a moment and
then lay still.

"A beauty, sure enough," said Sam.

"Worth waiting for," remarked Dick.  "'Tis
getting late, and Mother will have given me up, so
we'll go now.  He's big enough to give us two meals
at least."

They bent down to disengage the hook and wind
up the line.  So intent had they been on the capture
of the bass that neither had noticed, until that
moment, a smack about three-quarters of a mile out
at sea, sailing rapidly across the bay towards
St. Cuby's Cove.  The moon was rising, faintly
illuminating the vessel, but casting a deep shadow on the
water immediately beneath the cliff, so that the boys
were invisible from the smack.  Familiar as they
were with all the small craft belonging to Polkerran,
they knew at the first glance, in spite of the dim
light, that the smack was a stranger.

"She's not Cornish," said Dick, taking a long
look at her.

"Nor even English," added Sam.  "Maybe a
Frenchman from Rusco, though 'tis early for the
running to begin."

"They won't run a cargo at the Cove, surely.
The path up the cliff is too steep, and Joe
Penwarden's cottage too near.  I think she's a stranger
that doesn't know the coast."

They watched the smack until she rounded the
headland between them and the Cove, and then
began to row in the opposite direction.  They had
just reached the end of the promontory bounding
Trevanion Bay on the north, and had swung round
landward, when, their faces now being toward the
open sea, they saw something that caused them to
pause in mid-stroke.  Perhaps a mile in the offing
like a phantom barque in the quivering radiance of
the moonlight, lay a large three-masted vessel with
sails aback.  Through the still air came the sound
of creaking tackle, and the boys, resting on their
oars, saw a boat lowered, and then another, which
pulled off in the same direction as the smack.

"This be some jiggery, Maister Dick," said Sam.
"Do 'ee think, now, it be Boney come spying for a
place to land?"

Those were the days when the imminence of a
French invasion kept the people of the southern
counties in a constant state of alarm.

"Boney wouldn't come to this coast," replied
Dick.  "He wouldn't risk his flat boats round the
Lizard.  No; he'll make some lonely quiet spot on
the south coast; Boney won't trouble us."

"Well, daze me if I can make head or tail o't,"
said Sam.

"Pull in a bit, so that we can see without being
seen."

From the shadowed headland they watched in
silence.  The boats had scarcely gone a third of a
mile across the bay when a shrill whistle cleft the
air.  They at once put about, returned to the larger
vessel, and were hoisted in, whereupon the ship made
sail, and in the course of ten or fifteen minutes
disappeared into the darkness.

"There be queer things a-doing, I b'lieve," said
Sam, while the vessel was still in sight.

"Maybe," rejoined Dick, "but we don't know.
Don't speak a word of it till I give you leave, Sam.
'Tis a matter for Mr. Mildmay if any one."

"Zackly.  I can keep a still tongue with any
man; and now seems to I we'd best go home-along."

He dipped the oars, and pulled, not towards the
Beal, beyond which lay the village, but towards the
head of Trevanion Bay.  It was now high-water.
Below the cliff only a narrow stretch of white sand
was visible.  Within ten yards of this beach Sam
shipped oars, and the boat was carried along until its
nose stuck in the sand.  Both the boys then sprang
out, and dragged their craft up to the base of the
cliff beyond high-water mark.

"'Tis lucky tide be high," said Sam, wiping his
brow with the back of his hand, "for 'tis a hot night,
and old boat be desp'rate heavy."

"True, she's both heavy and old," said Dick, as
he secured her to a post driven deep into the sand.
"She's a good deal older than you or I, Sam."

"Ay, true, and Feyther have give her more knocks
than he've give me.  You can see his marks on her,
but you can't see 'em on me—hee! hee!"

Dick laughed.  Many a time had the planks been
repaired by old Reuben Pollex, the signs of whose
rough and ready handiwork were easily discoverable.

Carrying his tackle, Dick ordered Sam to bring
the bass, and led the way along a steep path that
zigzagged up the face of the cliff, being soon hidden
from the sea by knobs and corners of rock.  It was
a toilsome climb; the cliff was two hundred feet
high, but the windings made the path three times as
long.  When they reached the top, Sam found it
necessary once more to wipe his brow; then followed
his young master across a stretch of coarse bent
towards a large building, mistily lit by the
moonbeams, about a hundred yards distant.

The Towers, at one time a manor house of no
little importance, was now in the stage of decrepitude.
It had been for centuries in the possession of the
Trevanions, who, in the time of King Charles I., had
been a family of great wealth and influence, owning
estates, it was said, in three counties.  But the squire
of that time had sold part of his property to provide
money for the King, whose cause he espoused with
unselfish loyalty, and from that time the family
fortunes had gradually declined, partly through the
recklessness of certain of the owners, partly through
sheer ill-luck.  For many years wealth had been
drawn from tin and copper mines beneath the surface,
parts of whose apparatus, in the shape of ruined
sheds, scaffoldings, pipes, conduits, broken chains,
strewed the ground in desolate abandonment.  In
the early manhood of the present squire, Dick's
father, the lodes had shown signs of exhaustion, and
Mr. Trevanion, wishing to keep the mines going as
much for the sake of the miners as for his own
interest, had spent large sums on opening up new
workings, which proved unprofitable.  He had
mortgaged acre after acre in this fierce struggle with
misfortune, having more than his share of the
doggedness of his race; but all his efforts were
fruitless; the mines were closed and the men
dismissed; and the Squire himself at last had no
property unencumbered except the land on which the
Towers stood, and the barren cliff between the house
and the end of the promontory, almost worthless
save for the little grazing it afforded.

To this he had clung with grim tenacity.  He
was often hard put to it to pay the interest on his
mortgages as it became due; his little household,
consisting now only of himself, his wife and son, and
the two Pollexes, often had barely enough to eat;
many a time he was tempted to raise money on the
little remnant of his property; but for long years,
as often as the temptation came, he had resisted it.
Though he would not admit the fact, even to
himself, superstition had a good deal to do with his
determination.  He scoffed at the country folks'
belief in omens and witches, and professed to think
nothing of an old motto which had attached to his
family for near a hundred and fifty years.  In the
reign of Charles II., when the Trevanions owned
estates not only in Cornwall, but the adjoining
counties, the spendthrift whose extravagance had
been a partial cause of their ruin had, at some crisis
in his affairs, consulted a wise woman who lived
alone in a little cottage on the moor.  He brought
nothing from his interview with her but the couplet:

   |  Trevanion, whate'er thy fortune be,
   |  Hold fast the rock by the western sea.

Like his forefathers, Roger Trevanion derided the
witch's counsel, but, like them, too, he had "held
fast" until, a year before the opening of our story,
he had been forced to relax his grip.  Now every
rood of the land, to the uttermost extremity of the
Beal, was in the hands of mortgagees, and the
dread of foreclosure weighed on the Squire like a
nightmare.

The Towers had been allowed to fall into decay.
Only one wing was now inhabited; the remainder
was ruinous, and for the most part roofless.  In the
south wing lived the Squire, now past fifty years of
age, his wife, a few years younger, and Dick, their
only son.  Their sole attendants were Reuben
Pollex, a widower, who had grown up from boyhood
with the Squire, and steadily refused to leave
him, and his boy Sam.  These two did all the
household work, grew vegetables, bred poultry and
pigs, the sale of which, together with the small sums
obtained by letting to neighbouring farmers the
grazing rights of the cliff, was all that kept the
family from abject poverty.  Dick himself was, to a
large extent, the family provider.  With Sam's help
he snared rabbits, shot wild fowl, and fished along
the coast.  His bronzed skin and hard flesh bespoke
an active life in the open air, and as he went about
in his jersey, rough breeches, and long boots, he
would scarcely have been distinguishable from the
fisher lads of the village but for a certain springiness
of gait and a look of refinement and thoughtfulness.

.. vspace:: 2

Dick and his companion hastened towards the
south wing, where an unusually bright light in one
of the lower rooms proclaimed that the Squire had
company.  While Sam took the fish, which turned
out to be a fine fourteen-pounder, into the kitchen,
Dick changed his boots, washed his hands, and
entered the living-room.  His father sat at the head
of the table, his mother at the foot; between them
was a man of about the Squire's age, dressed in a blue
coat with brass buttons, with "seaman" written on
every inch of him.  The table was covered with a
spotless but much-darned cloth; the only viands
were a loaf of bread and half a cheese.  A large
brown jug contained ale brewed in the family
brew-house by old Pollex.

"Why, Dick, how late you are!" said his
mother.  "We are just going to begin supper."

"Better put it off for a few minutes, Mother.
I've brought home a fine bass.  How d'ye do,
Mr. Mildmay?"

"Ah, Dick, glad to see you, my boy!  Good
fishing to-night, eh?"

"One catch after two hours, sir," replied Dick.
"The weather's too fine, I suppose."

"Shall we wait, Mr. Mildmay?" asked his hostess.

"As you please, ma'am."

Mr. Mildmay, a naval lieutenant, now in
command of a revenue cutter, knew very well by the
expression of the lady's face that the postponement
of the meal was welcome to her.  He was an old
friend of the Squire's—a messmate indeed, for
Mr. Trevanion had served for a few years in the Navy;
and his acquaintance with the penury of the household
had neither diminished his friendship nor
damped the cordiality of the Squire's welcome.  In
these days there were few visitors to the Towers, and
those who came knew what they had to expect in the
way of entertainment.  Such as might have looked
merely for the satisfaction of the inner man had
long since ceased to call.  Mr. Mildmay could have
supped contentedly on bread and cheese.  The
meagreness of the fare would have troubled
Mrs. Trevanion the most, and the look upon her face
told Dick how welcome was his addition to it.

Dick went into the kitchen to see how Sam was
getting on, and soon returned with a portion of the
fish broiled and garnished with herbs.

"As fine a bit of fish as I've tasted," said
Mr. Mildmay, "and well cooked, upon my word."

"I am glad you like it," said Mrs. Trevanion,
giving Dick privately an approving smile.

"You'll soon be hard at work, I suppose, sir,"
said Dick to the lieutenant.

"Yes, no doubt I shall have a merry winter.
But I wish the Commissioners would make better
arrangements on land.  What can I do, with miles
of coast to keep an eye on?  One riding-officer and
a few old excisemen here and there!  I can't be
everywhere."

"Why don't they, sir?" asked Dick.

"Because every man of muscle is snapped up by
the press-gang or the recruiters.  Upon my word, I
wish Boney would come, if he is coming.  When he
has had his walloping there'll be a little time to
attend to our proper concerns.  As it is, with this
eternal war going on, the free-traders play ducks
and drakes with law and ordinances."

The Squire said nothing.  His attitude to
smuggling was one of neutrality.  His training in
the Navy made him in general adverse to the
contraband trade; but there was a time, not very
long since, when the owners of the Towers were
actively engaged in it, or at least accessory to it, and
the landowners along the coast regarded it with
sympathy, open or secret.  Indeed, it is probable
that the cask of brandy in Mr. Trevanion's own
cellar had never paid duty to the Crown, and old
Reuben Pollex, who loved his "dish of tay," would
certainly not have been able to enjoy it in that time
of high prices unless he had known a little back room
in Polkerran where it was easy to slip in and out
secretly, and without the knowledge of the exciseman.

"The smugglers are getting bolder and bolder,
confound 'em," Mr. Mildmay went on.  "With the
land force so weak, what's the result?  If I'm called
to a spot, ten to one by a trick, I must leave the rest
of the coast unguarded.  As you know, the only man
permanently in this neighbourhood is old Penwarden,
who is zealous enough, but not so active as a younger
man would be."

"No, poor man," said Mrs. Trevanion.  "He
has often said to me that he fears the Government
will replace him.  He will cling to his duty as long
as he can for the sake of his old sister.  You know
he supports her, in Truro, Mr. Mildmay."

"I know it, and I'm not the man to put him out
of a job, though one of these days a Commissioner
of Customs will make his appearance, and then I'll
get a wigging."

All this while Dick had been considering whether
he ought to tell the lieutenant about the strange
vessels he had seen.  He knew that smuggling was
the only matter on which there was a certain
constraint between his father and Mr. Mildmay.  It
was tacitly understood between them that the Squire
would not round on the smugglers.  On the other
hand, the revenue officer knew that anything he told
the Squire would be perfectly safe with him.  He
therefore discussed the subject quite openly with
his old messmate, though, like a wise general, he
never spoke about any plans that he had in view.

Dick made up his mind to say nothing.  The
lieutenant's cutter was lying in the little harbour,
and if he mentioned what he had seen, Mr. Mildmay
would certainly hurry away and sail in chase of the
stranger.  What the Squire would not do, his son
could not.  But he had scarcely come to this
decision when matters took an unexpected turn.

"By the way, Squire," said the lieutenant, "I've
just heard from Plymouth that the *Aimable
Vertu*—precious fine name for a rascally privateer—is
showing herself very active in the Channel.  She made
two captures last week, and was sighted two days
ago off Falmouth, where a barque only just managed
to escape her.  She's said to be a vessel of
extraordinary speed.  The Government would give a
good deal to catch her and hang her captain, that
daredevil Frenchman, Delarousse; but it's with
privateers as it is with smugglers: we can't be
everywhere at once, and while we're fighting the
French on the high seas, I suppose our home waters
must be left to the enemy."

This led to an exchange of reminiscences of
privateer-hunting during the American war, when
both were young in the service.  Meanwhile Dick
felt uncomfortable.  What if the larger vessel he
had lately seen was this very privateer, the *Aimable
Vertu*?  In that case it was no question of
smuggling, but of piracy.  He felt that he ought
at least to mention the matter, yet hesitated to speak
without consulting his father.  By-and-by there
came an opportunity of speaking to him privately.
While Mr. Mildmay was conversing with
Mrs. Trevanion, Dick slipped to the Squire's side and
told him in a sentence or two what he had seen.

"Mildmay," cried the Squire, "hark to this.
Dick tells me that an hour or more ago he saw a
strange three-master in the bay.  She lowered a
couple of boats, but recalled 'em, and sailed away
westward.  D'ye think she's the privateer?"

"Dash my bones, Dick," cried the lieutenant,
starting up, "why on earth didn't you speak
before?  Oh!  I see—I see; I won't reproach you;
but I'll be as mad as a hatter if 'tis the rascal and
she gets away.  Good night to you all; you'll
excuse me, Mrs. Trevanion.  Oh, you young dog!"

He shook his fist at Dick, and hurried from the room.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`John Trevanion Returns Home`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE SECOND


.. class:: center medium

   John Trevanion Returns Home

.. vspace:: 2

About half-an-hour before Mr. Mildmay left the
Squire's supper-table so hurriedly, a man laboured
up the last few feet of the winding path leading
from the beach of St. Cuby's Cove to the cliff-top,
which he gained at a point rather more than
half-a-mile from the spot where Dick and Sam had
previously ascended.  He was a tall man, his build
and figure indicating a capacity for lithe and rapid
movement, so that the heaviness of his gait was
probably due solely to the size and weight of the
leathern trunk he carried.  Like Sam Pollex, he
paused for a moment on reaching the top to recover
his breath and mop his brow; then, shouldering his
trunk, he struck into a narrow footpath that led over
the cliff.  It branched into two after a few yards, the
right-hand branch going direct to the Towers, the
left-hand running away from the sea to join a rough,
ill-made road which led past the gate of the Towers
to the village.

On reaching the fork the pedestrian did not
hesitate, as a stranger might have done, but took the
left-hand path.  After proceeding a few steps along
it, however, he made a sudden half-turn, and stopped,
looking across the open ground towards the Towers,
where one room on the ground floor made a patch
of light against the dark background of sky and sea.
The man stood but a moment, then resumed his
march along the path in the same direction as before.
A smile wreathed his lips, and he muttered to
himself.  He went on at a smart pace over the level
ground, turned to the right when he came to the
road, passed the Towers' gates, which he observed
were broken, and walked for another quarter of a
mile before he again halted.  Then he set his burden
down by the roadside, sat upon it, and wiped his
heated face, where the smile had been replaced by a
frown.

"I daresay I'm a fool," he muttered in a growling
undertone.  "Why did I chafe and gall myself with
carrying this plaguey trunk?  However, maybe
'tis best."

While he was still resting, he heard footsteps upon
his right hand, and looked round quickly.  The moon
was up, and he saw a young fisherman rolling along
a path that ran into the road a few paces distant.

"Ahoy, there!" cried the traveller in a deep and
mellow voice.

The fisherman, who had not as yet perceived him,
came to a sudden stop as the silence of the night
was broken thus unexpectedly and so near at hand;
then, catching sight of the figure on the trunk, he
slipped off the path on to the grass and began to
run.

"Ahoy, there!  What ails you?" cried the man.
"D'you want to earn a groat?"

Reassured, apparently, at the mention of so
material a thing as a groat, the fisherman turned and
came slowly towards the speaker.

"Did you think I was a ghost?" the stranger
went on with a laugh.  "I want you to carry this
trunk to the village, and I'll give you a groat for
your pains."

"I'll do it, maister," replied the fisher, shouldering
the trunk.  "But ye give me a fright, that ye did."

"Why, you never saw a ghost with a brown face,
and a black hat, and a blue coat, not to speak of
brown breeches and long boots, did you?"

"I won't say I did, but the neighbours do say
there be ghosteses up-along by St. Cuby's Well.
Maybe yer a furriner, maister?"

"No, no; I'm good Cornish like yourself,"
replied the man, who knew that to Cornishmen all
who lived beyond the borders of the duchy were
accounted foreigners.

"Well, I can see plain ye be a high person, and
jown me if I know why ye carry yer own bag and
traipse afoot, instead o' coming a-horseback, or in a
po'chay."

The traveller shot a glance at the lad.  He saw a
rugged profile, a brow on which thought had carved
no furrows, a half-open mouth: the physiognomy
of a simple countryman.  Then, after a scarcely
perceptible pause, he said:

"Well, I hate close folks who make a secret of
everything, so I'll tell you.  I got a lift in a
travelling wagon from Newquay, but the wretch that drove
it was bound for Truro, and point-blank refused to
bring me farther than the cross-roads a couple of
miles back.  So now you know, my man, and I
daresay you could tell a stranger what I've told you."

"Sure and sartin.  You be come from Newquay
in a wagon, and when ye got to cross-roads driver
said he'd be jowned if he'd carr' 'ee a step furder."

"You have it pat; and now step out; 'tis getting
latish."

They proceeded along the silent road at a good
pace toward the village, the traveller dropping a
remark now and then from which the fisherman
understood that he was not a complete stranger to
the district.  Just as they reached a spot where the
road dipped somewhat steeply, there were sounds of
rapid footsteps behind them, and in a few moments
two men came up, one Mr. Mildmay, the revenue
officer, the other an old weather-beaten fellow in
seaman's clothes.  He wore a black shade over his
right eye, and the unnaturally short distance between
his nose and the tip of his chin showed that he had
lost his teeth.  This was Joe Penwarden, the veteran
exciseman who had been mentioned at Squire
Trevanion's supper-table.  On leaving the Towers,
Mr. Mildmay had gone first to the right, and fetched
Penwarden from his little cottage on the cliff,
and then retraced his steps through the Squire's
grounds.  Had he been a few minutes earlier,
he could hardly have failed to see the pedestrian
trudging with his trunk on his shoulder along
the path that ran a score of yards from Penwarden's
cottage.

"Halt, in the King's name!" cried Mr. Mildmay,
as he overtook the two men who had preceded him
along the road.

.. _`"'HALT, IN THE KING'S NAME!' CRIED MR. MILDMAY"`:

.. figure:: images/img-026.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "'HALT, IN THE KING'S NAME!' CRIED MR. MILDMAY"

   "'HALT, IN THE KING'S NAME!' CRIED MR. MILDMAY"

"I'll halt if 'ee bid me in the King's name," said
the fisher, recognising the revenue officer, whom he,
like the population of Polkerran generally, held in
detestation mingled with unwilling respect, "but I
bean't doin' nowt agen the law, I tell 'ee, carr'in' a
genel'um's traps for a groat."

"A gentleman, is it?" said Mr. Mildmay, turning
to the traveller.  "I must ask you to tell me your
business."

"And you shall have an answer.  I come from
Newquay, and am going to seek a night's lodging
at the Five Pilchards, if you have no objection,
captain."

Mr. Mildmay looked suspiciously at the speaker,
whose accent was that of an educated man.  He was
not the type of person to meet afoot with his trunk
on the high road.  Old Penwarden's single eye also
was fixed on the stranger's swarthy, bearded face.

"No more objection, my dear sir, than you will
have to my taking a look at the inside of that trunk
of yours.  In the King's name!"

"With all the pleasure in life.  Amos, or
whatever your name is, set down the trunk for the
inspection of this exceedingly zealous officer of His
Majesty's."

The trunk was opened, and Penwarden turned
over its contents, Mr. Mildmay looking on.  He
found articles of apparel, a sword, some bundles of
papers, a bag of money, a large leather-bound book,
a brace of pistols, and sundry insignificant articles,
none of which was chargeable with duty.

"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Mildmay, when the
inspection was concluded.  "I am sorry to have
detained you, but in these times——"

"Quite so, captain," interrupted the other.  "In
these times one cannot be too particular.  I bid
you good-night, and better luck at your next
examination."

Mr. Mildmay hurried on with Penwarden, and
was soon lost to sight.

"Who's that popinjay?" said the traveller, when
the lieutenant was out of hearing.

"That be Maister Mildmay, the preventive officer,
and a dratted furriner," replied the fisher.  "He've
been in these parts two years now, and a meddlesome
feller he be too.  Hee! hee!  He got nowt
for his pains this time, maister, and if there's one
thing I do like to see, 'tis the preventives fooled.
Hee! hee!"

"Old Penwarden looks the same as ever, except
for the shade over his eye."

"Do 'ee know him, maister?"

"I used to, years ago."

"Iss, old Joe be a decent good soul of his trade,
and we was vexed, trewly, when 'a got his eye put
out in a fight by Lunnan Cove.  But there, he
shouldn' meddle with honest free-traders.
Lawk-a-massy!  I be speakin' free."

"Oh, you're quite safe with me.  I'm a bit of a
free-trader myself, in my way."

They went on, and in a few minutes came to an
inn at the lower end of the village near the beach.
This was the Five Pilchards.  The village boasted
another inn, a hundred yards away, called the Three
Jolly Mariners; but it belied its name, being
frequented mainly by farm labourers.

The traveller paid and dismissed the fisher, and
rapped at the closed door.  It was opened by the
innkeeper himself, a podgy, red-nosed, blear-eyed
fellow, with an underhung lip, and a chin like a
dewlap.  A small candle-lamp hung above in the
doorway, showing a dim yellow ray upon the
smiling face of the visitor.  The innkeeper started
back.

"I startled you, eh?" said the visitor.  "Yes, it
is I myself—John Trevanion come home again.
I am getting on in years, Doubledick, and I felt
I should like to die among my friends."

"Ha, ha!  Ho, ho!" laughed the innkeeper.
"'Tis Maister John, for sure, come home with his
little jokes.  Come along in, maister, come in; daze
me if I bean't as pleased as pigs to see 'ee."

"Take me to a room, Doubledick, and get some
clean sheets, will you?  And send me up something
passable to eat and drink; I'll sup alone."

"Iss, sure.  I'll give 'ee the best I've got in the
house.  What do 'ee say, now, to collops and fried
taties, or a nice bit o' bass, or a dish o' pickled
pilchurs, and some real old—you know what, Maister
John?  Hee, hee!"

"Whatever you like, Doubledick, only be quick
about it."

The innkeeper led his visitor along a passage past
the open door of the bar-parlour.  John Trevanion
glanced in as he went by.  A number of rough
fishermen in various garments sat drinking on settles
along the wall.  The most noticeable among them
was a man of vast breadth, brawny and muscular, his
strong features tanned copper-colour by years of
sea-faring, his thick hair and beard the hue of ebony.
The sleeves of his scarlet jersey were turned up,
revealing brown and hairy forearms that would
have befitted a Hercules.

"Tonkin is still flourishing, I see," said Trevanion
in an undertone to the innkeeper as he passed.

"Iss, Zacky Tonkin be as great a man as ever he
wer, and a tarrible plague o' life to the preventives.
Mr. Curgenven—ye mind of him, Maister
John?—died two year back, and they sent a furrin feller,
Mildmay by name, to look arter us mortals—hee! hee!
He be a good feller at his job, a sight better
than Curgenven, who loved an easy life, as 'ee could
remember; but Zacky do know how to deal wi' un,
he do so.  Oh, 'tis a rare deceivin' game he plays
wi' un.  He's up-along and down-along, and this
Mildmay feller atraipsin' arter un, by sea and land,
'tis all one to Zacky.  Here's yer room, Maister
John.  Do 'ee set yerself down and I'll bring 'ee
up a supper fit for a lord in no time."

He looked at his visitor doubtfully for a moment.

"I'd axe 'ee one thing," he said.  "Be I to let
'em know down below as you be in house?"

"To be sure, Doubledick, there's nothing to
conceal.  You might remember to say that I've come
from London—no, hang me, I am forgetting; from
Newquay directly, from London ultimately.  You
understand?"

"Iss, I understand.  No matter where 'ee come
from, if 'twere from old Nick hisself, they'll be glad
to see 'ee, that they will."

John Trevanion kept to his room until the
morning.  At nine o'clock he left the inn and made
his way through the village by back lanes, to escape
the notice of such fishermen as might remember
him, and proceeded at a quick pace along the road
to the Towers.  He was dressed this morning in a
black hat turned up at one side with a rosette, a
bottle-green frock coat, white kerseymere breeches,
and long boots.  "He looks summat older and
nearer graveyard, as must we all," remarked
Doubledick to a crony as he watched him depart,
"but he's a fine figure of a man still."

Arriving at the Towers, John Trevanion lifted the
latch of the door leading to the inhabited portion,
and entered with the freedom of one of the family.
The Squire was at breakfast with his wife and son.

"Come in," he shouted, in answer to a tap on the
door, and rose from his chair as the well-dressed
visitor entered, thinking, as might have been
gathered from his manner, that it was one of the
few friends who had the freedom of the house.
But at a second glance his demeanour altered.

"You have made a mistake, I think," he said
stiffly, resting both hands on the table.  His fine
face was flushed, and Dick, looking on in wonderment,
noticed that the riband that bound his queue
of grey hair was quivering.

"Surely, Cousin Roger, you'll let bygones be
bygones," said John Trevanion suavely.  "'Tis
now—I don't know how many years ago."

"When I last saw you, sir, I bade you never
enter my door again.  I do not call back my words,
and see no reason to do so.  You will oblige me by
relieving me of your presence."

The words came sternly from his trembling lips.
Dick felt himself go hot and cold.

"Is there no word repentance in your dictionary,
Roger Trevanion?" said his cousin bitterly.
"You're a good Christian, I suppose—go to church
and say the Commandments, 'love your neighbour,'
and all that; but you'll harden your heart against
one of your own kin that had the ill-luck to offend
you——"

"Stop!" thundered the Squire.  "The offence
to me I make nothing of; you have shamed your
name and put yourself beyond the pale of honest
men.  'Ill-luck,' you call it!  'Twas no
ill-luck—though we Trevanions have enough of that, God
knows!—but the act and nature of a scoundrel.  I
am ashamed you bear my name.  I disown you.
Take yourself out of my sight."

His wife laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"A pretty welcome, on my soul, for a man who
has lived down the faults of his youth," said John
Trevanion.  "I tell you, Roger Trevanion, I will
not put up with such usage—I will not!  I don't
want your forgiveness; a fig for your friendship!
But I demand decent treatment from you, and——"

"By the Lord that made me," cried the Squire,
"if you do not instantly remove yourself from this
house I will have you thrown out.  Do you hear
me, sir?"

John Trevanion's eyes glittered as he returned
his cousin's wrathful look.  He half opened his
mouth, closed it with a snap; then an inscrutable
smile stole upon his face.  He shrugged, turned on
his heel, and went silently from the room.

The Squire sank into his chair.  The flush had
vanished from his face, leaving it ashy pale.  His
hands trembled with excess of indignation.

"My dear, calm yourself," said his wife soothingly.
"He is gone."

He made no reply.  Dick sat silent, every nerve
tingling with excitement.  In a minute his father
rose, leaving his coffee half finished, and strode
heavily from the room.

"Mother, what does it mean?" asked Dick
breathlessly.  "Was that cousin John?"

"Yes, my dear.  Do not name him to your
father.  I will go to him; I fear he will be ill.
Finish your breakfast, Dick, and go to the Parsonage.
You had better stay there all day; Mr. Carlyon will
give you some dinner."

She followed her husband, leaving Dick to his
breakfast and his wondering thoughts.  He faintly
remembered his cousin John Trevanion, who ten
years before had lived in the now empty Dower
House, between the Towers and the village, as his
father had done before him.  John Trevanion had
then been a gay, careless, happy-go-lucky young
man of thirty, who lived on the Squire's bounty,
riding his horse among the county yeomanry,
hunting with his neighbours, roistering it with the
most rakish young blades of the adjacent manors,
joining in daredevil escapades with the smugglers.
His antics and riotings became a byword in the
country-side, and Dick remembered how, when a
young boy, he had witnessed several violent scenes
between his father and John after some particularly
outrageous exploit.  Old Pollex had told him that
the Squire had threatened many times that unless
John reformed he would no longer be allowed to
occupy the Dower House, and had forgiven him
over and over again.  At last a day came when John
disappeared.  Dick had never learnt the true reason;
the Squire never mentioned his cousin; Pollex,
when questioned, shook his head and pursed up his
lips, and said that John Trevanion was a villain;
and Dick had formed the conclusion from stray
hints that the ne'er-do-well cousin had been driven
out of the country by some criminal act.  For ten
years he had not been heard of, and he had wholly
slipped from Dick's thoughts.

Having finished his breakfast, Dick took his cap
and set off for his two-mile walk to the Parsonage,
where he went daily to receive lessons in classics and
literature from Mr. Carlyon, the vicar.  He had
never been to school, his father's resources being
incapable of bearing the expense.  A few years
before this time the Squire had been seriously
disturbed about his son's education.  He was himself
a sufficiently competent tutor in mathematics, but
what classics he ever had had wholly left him, and
he was miserable in the thought that the boy was
growing up without the elements of the education of
a gentleman.  At this point the vicar stepped in
with a proposal.  He was a liberal-minded, genial
man, a fellow of his college, a student of his county's
antiquities, and in his 'varsity days had been a notable
athlete.  Now, though well on in years, he would
often, on a Sunday afternoon after church, lend his
countenance to wrestling bouts and games of baseball
among the village youths.  He rode to hounds, and
judged at coursing matches, these and similar
avocations probably accounting for the fact that a history
of the parish, which he had commenced twenty years
before, was still unfinished.  One day he suggested
to the Squire that he should give Dick lessons in
Latin and Greek, to keep himself from rusting, as the
worthy man delicately put it, but really to make good
the deficiency due to his friend's straitened means.
Mr. Trevanion gladly accepted the offer, and Dick
had now been for five years under the parson's capable
tuition.

When Dick returned home in the evening he
was met by Sam Pollex in a state of considerable
excitement.

"I say, Maister Dick," he said, "this be a fine
mossel o' news.  Yer cousin John—a rare bad 'un
he be—have come home-along."

"I know," replied Dick.  "I've seen him."

"Have 'ee, for sure?  I hain't seed un, but I
heerd tell on un in village.  Ike Pendry were goin'
along road last night when up comes my genel'um
and axed un to carr' his bundle for a groat.  He
wer traipsin' along from St. Cuby's Cove way, about
an hour, it do seem, arter we come up from fishin'."

"Where had he come from?"

"Newquay, 'a said; but 'tis my belief he come out
o' the smack we seed, and clomb the cliff, same as we."

"That's nonsense.  He wouldn't come in a
smack, and if he did he wouldn't land at the Cove.
He has made no secret of his return, and there's no
reason why he shouldn't land at the jetty."

"Ah, well, things be as they be; but I reckon he
come in the smack, all the same."

"What is he doing in the village?"

"He bean't there no longer.  This arternoon he
packed up his traps and rid off on one of Doubledick's
hosses to Trura.  Feyther seed un go.  'A
called to un as he rid by.  'Hoy, Reuben!' says
he, ''tis a cold country, this!'  That just 'mazed
Feyther, 'cos it was a frizzlin' day.  'Spect he've been
in furrin parts, wheer what's bilin' to we is nawthin'
but chill-off to they.  So 'tis, to be sure."

At this piece of news Dick felt much relieved.
He hoped that Polkerran had seen the last of John
Trevanion.  But it turned out that the return of the
native was only the first scene in a series of strange
happenings that were to be long remembered in the
village, and were vitally to affect the fortunes of the
family at the Towers.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Blow Falls`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE THIRD


.. class:: center medium

   The Blow Falls

.. vspace:: 2

For some days after the event just related, life
at Polkerran and the neighbourhood flowed on its
customary sluggish tide.  The fishermen were idle,
waiting for pilchards to appear off the coast.  The
harvest had been gathered in from the fields.  There
was little for the village folk to do except to gossip.
Men gathered in knots on the jetty and at the
inn-doors, chatting about the return of John Trevanion,
the strange vessels that had been seen, and the
revenue cutter's failure to catch them, the
appearance of a ghost at St. Cuby's Well, the prospects
of the fishing season, the chances of making good
"runs," and besting Mr. Mildmay and the
excisemen.  At the Towers there was nothing to show
that anything had happened to disturb the placid
surface of existence, except that the Squire was more
silent than usual, and went about with a pale face
and a preoccupied and troubled look.

One afternoon, after the lapse of about a week,
Dick, leaving the Parsonage after his daily lessons,
was surprised to see his father approaching across
the glebe.  The Squire was on foot: his last horse
had been sold long ago.

"Ha, Dick!" he said, as he met his son, "you
have finished with Greeks and Romans for the day,
then.  I have come for a word with the parson.
Shall be home to supper."

Dick went on, and his father entered the house.

"Ah, Trevanion, I am glad to see you," said
Mr. Carlyon, cordially, his keen eyes not failing to
note a certain gravity in his old friend's expression.

"I want your advice, Carlyon," said Mr. Trevanion
abruptly.

"And you shall have the best I can give, as you
know well.  Come into the garden and smoke a
pipe with me.  Good, honest tobacco, even if 'tis
contraband—and I can't swear to that—will do no
harm to you or me."

When they were seated side by side in wide
wicker chairs beneath the shade of an elm-tree, the
Squire drew from his pocket a folded paper which
had been sealed at the edges.

"Read that," he said, handing it to the vicar.

Mr. Carlyon carefully rubbed his spectacles, set
them on his nose with deliberation, and slowly
opened the paper.

"H'm!  God bless my soul!  Poor old
Trevanion!" he murmured, as he read, unconscious
that his words were audible.  "This is bad
news, Trevanion," he said, aloud, looking over the
rims of his spectacles with grave concern.

"It is.  It is the very worst," said the Squire,
gloomily.  "It is the end of things for me."

"No, no; don't say that.  Every cloud has a
silver lining."

"A musty proverb, Carlyon.  You don't see the
silver lining in a thunderstorm, and it doesn't keep
your skin dry.  This spells ruin, ruin irretrievable."

The parson pressed his lips together, and read the
document again.  It was a brief intimation from a
Truro attorney of his client's intention to foreclose
on the mortgages he held upon certain parcels of
land, if the sums advanced on them were not repaid
within a month from that date.

"This is not your own man?" said the parson.

"No.  I never heard of him before."

"What is the extent of the obligation?"

"Two thousand pounds.  I can't muster as many
shillings.  I am in arrear with the interest.  Within
a month we shall be in the poor-house—a noble end
for Trevanion of the Towers!"

"Tut, tut!  You take too black a view of things.
'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I
not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging
bread.'"

"But I have, and so have you, Carlyon.  I see
things as they are.  'Tis no surprise to me; these
many months I have felt the blow might fall at
any moment; but the condemned man hopes to the
last for a reprieve, and I have gone from day to day,
like a weakling and simpleton, refusing to face the
facts.  Not that I could have done anything; I am
bankrupt; there's no way out of it."

"Who holds the mortgages?"

"Sir Bevil Portharvan.  I have nothing to say
against him.  He has been very patient.  A man of
business would have foreclosed long ago, though he
would have got little by it, for the mines are worked
out, the Towers is a ruin, and the land will grow
next to nothing but thistles and burdock.  'Twas
to be."

"But he can't take the Towers from you.  Do
you not hold fast to that?"

"I did till a year ago, but there's a small bond on
that now—a paltry hundred pounds; I could raise
no more on it and the cliff.  Sir Bevil does not hold
that, however; 'tis my own lawyer."

The parson sawed the air with his hand, a trick of
his when perplexed.

"Well, old friend," he said, "I am sorry for
you, from the bottom of my heart.  If I had the
money, I would gladly lend it you, but 'passing
rich on forty pound a year,' you know——"

"I know well.  'Tis not for that I come to you.
Give me your advice.  What can I do?  I must
leave the Towers; what can I do for a livelihood?
Like the man in the Book, 'I cannot dig; to beg I
am ashamed.'  What a miserable fool I was to throw
up the sea when I came into the property!  And
yet I don't know.  Look at Mildmay; a year or
two younger, 'tis true, but still a lieutenant, and
thought fit for nothing better than to chase luggers
and circumvent the trade.  I've no interest with the
Admiralty; they've enough to do to provide for the
seamen invalided from the wars.  What can an old
fool past fifty do to earn his salt?  Years ago I had
my dreams of paying off the burdens and reviving
the Trevanion fortunes; but they have long since
vanished into thin air; the task needed a better
head than mine.  And what little chance I might
have had was doomed by the misdeeds of that
scoundrel cousin of mine——"

"I heard that he reappeared the other day.  I
hoped it was not true."

"'Twas true.  He had the boldness, the effrontery,
to come to me with his 'let bygones be bygones,'
and sneering at my Christianity.  You know the facts,
Carlyon.  You know how, but that I impoverished
myself, he would to this day be in the hulks or
slaving in the plantations.  I was too tender, I was
indeed.  I ought to have let the law take its course,
and put my pride in my pocket.  'Twas a weakness,
I own it; and now 'tis time to take my payment."

"No, my good friend, you did right to keep your
name unstained.  But I wonder, indeed I do, that
John Trevanion has dared to show his face here
again."

"Oh, 'tis no wonder," said the Squire bitterly.
"No one knew of his crime but three, you and I
and John Hammond; only Hammond had proof of
it, and he is dead.  My worthless cousin learnt of
his death, I warrant you; the Devil has quick
couriers for such as he; and he comes back, relying
on my weakness and your holiness.  But I'll speak
no more of him; he is gone, and I hope I shall
never see him again.  There's my boy Dick: what
is to become of him?  He is seventeen; he ought
to be making his way in the world.  I can't put him
to a profession; I keep him at home drudging for
us; and but for your kindness, Carlyon, he would
be as ignorant and raw as the meanest farm-hind.
'Tis not right; 'tis cruelty to the lad; and he will
live to curse the day he was born a Trevanion."

"Come, come, this is not like you, Squire," said
Mr. Carlyon warmly.  "The lad is doing very well.
He lives an open, honest life, and a useful one.
What if his hands are horny?  He makes good
progress with his books, too, and will be fit in a year
or two to win a sizarship at Oxford, and he will do
well there, take orders, or maybe become secretary
to some great person.  You need fear nothing for
Dick.  No; 'tis for yourself and your good wife we
must think.  And now let us put our heads together.
What say you to visiting Sir Bevil, and seeking
further grace?  I will myself undertake the office."

"Never!" cried the Squire firmly.  "I will
have no man supplicating and beseeching on my
behalf.  No; let what must come, come; never
will I whine and grovel for mercy."

"You are an obstinate old fool, Roger Trevanion,"
said the parson, laying a friendly hand on the other's
arm.  "But I own I sympathise with your feeling.
Well, then, my counsel is—and you may scorn it—do
nothing."

"Nothing!"

"Simply wait.  The foreclosure must come, I see
that; but the other mortgagee has not moved; you
will still have a roof above you; you make no
profit of the mortgaged lands, and so will be not a
whit worse off than you are now, save in the one
point of pride.  That pride of yours has been your
snare, Trevanion."

"Well I know it!"

"I don't preach, except on Sundays, but I believe
in my heart that this trouble will turn out for your
good.  Hold fast your rock, old friend; 'twas
sound advice, even though it came from a witch.
No man can give you better, and I am superstitious
enough to believe that while you follow it the
Trevanions will not come to beggary."

The two friends sat talking for some time longer.
When the Squire rose to go away, he said—

"I thank you, Carlyon.  You have done me
good.  I see nothing but darkness ahead, but I'll
take your advice; I'll stick to the ship, and keep
my colours flying, and who knows?—perhaps I shall
weather it out after all."

They shook hands and parted, and the parson
returned to his study to read over an ode of Horace
in readiness for Dick's lesson next day.

After his conversation with Mr. Carlyon the Squire
recovered his wonted serenity.  So cheerful was
he when he told his wife and son what was going to
happen, that they refrained from giving utterance in
his presence to their own feelings on the matter, for
fear of bringing back his gloom.  He rode over one
day in the carrier's cart to Truro to pay the interest on
the Towers mortgage with the proceeds of a fine
litter of pigs, and showed his lawyer the letter he had
received from his professional brother.

"An excellent practitioner, sharp as a needle,"
said the lawyer.  "He came to me a while ago
wanting to purchase the little bond I myself hold;
but I refused him point-blank, and went so far as to
express my surprise at Sir Bevil.  He grinned at me,
Mr. Trevanion—yes, grinned at me in the most
unseemly way.  'Twas not Sir Bevil's doing: that
is one comfort."

"Who bought up the bonds, then?"

"That I cannot tell you: I do not know.  No
doubt a stranger, who has more money than
judgment.  I am sorry for this; I am indeed; and
if there were any chance of getting metal out of the
earth I could have transferred your mortgages with
the greatest ease.  As it is—but there, I won't talk
of it.  As for my own little bond on the Towers,
that may remain till Doomsday so far as I am
concerned.  It would cut me to the heart to see the old
place in the hands of any one but a Trevanion."

"You're a good fellow, Trevenick," said the Squire,
"and I'm grateful to you."

"Not at all, not at all, my dear sir.  I am
perfectly satisfied with my investment."

And the Squire returned home more cheerful than
ever, convinced that lawyers were not all as dry as
their parchments.

The allotted month sped away.  One afternoon,
when Dick was at the parson's, Sam Pollex ran at
headlong speed up the road from the village, dashed
into the house, and forgetting his manners, burst
into the Squire's room without knocking or wiping
his boots, as he had been strictly enjoined always
to do.

"If 'ee please, sir," he panted, "there be a wagon
full of females pulled up at the door o' the Dower
House yonder."

"Indeed!" said the Squire.  "Have you never
seen females before, Sam?"

"Iss I have, sometimes, in the village; but these
be furriners, sir."

"Well, maybe they'll buy your eggs, and that'll
save you three-quarters of your walk to the village."

Sam went out, looking very much puzzled.  What
had brought foreign females to his master's house,
he wondered?  Within half an hour he was back
again, this time a little less eager, though equally
excited.  He rapped on the door, and being bidden
to enter, said, less breathlessly than before:

"If 'ee please, sir, I seed a man on a hoss ride up
to Dower House, and he went inside, sir, and 'twas
Maister John."

"Who?  John who?"  The questions came
like pistol-shots.

"His other name be Trevanion, it do seem," said
the boy.

The Squire got up in great agitation.

"Are you sure, boy?" he asked.

"No, sir, I bean't sure, 'cos I never seed un
afore; but I axed Tom Penny, who was standing
by, who 'twas, and he said, 'Why, ninny-watch,
doan't 'ee know yer own maister's born cousin?
'Tis the same fine genel'um that give Ike Pendry a
groat for carr'n his portmantel.'"

Then something happened that scared Sam out of
his wits and sent him scampering to the kitchen for
his father.

"Feyther, Feyther," he cried, "come quick!
Squire's took bad.  'A went all gashly white and
wambled about, sighin' and groanin' that terrible!
He's dyin', I b'lieve."

Old Reuben was lame, but he caught up a jug of
water and hobbled with it as fast as he could to the
Squire's room, sending Sam to fetch the mistress.
He found the Squire seated in his chair, with a stony
look upon his ashen face.

"What ails thee, maister?" cried the terrified
servant.

"Nothing, nothing, Reuben," replied Mr. Trevanion.
"Don't be afraid, and don't alarm your
mistress."

Here Mrs. Trevanion came hastily in, Sam
hanging behind as if afraid to approach too near.

"I am sorry they called you, my dear," said the
Squire.  "There is nothing wrong.  Leave us,
Reuben."

The old man hobbled away.  Mrs. Trevanion
stood by her husband's chair.

"I was overcome for a moment, but it has passed,"
said the Squire.  "John Trevanion is the master of
my lands."

"It cannot be, Roger!"

"It is, it is.  Sam saw a party of servants drive
to the Dower House, and John himself ride up a
while after."

"But, Roger, I do not understand."

"'Tis very simple.  He has bought up the
mortgages from Sir Bevil's attorney—'twas hard to
believe that the foreclosure was Sir Bevil's
doing—and has come to mock me and flout me at my own
doors; ay, and to drive me away, if he can!"

"A penniless man, Roger!  You told me he left
here a beggar."

"Yes, a beggar, and worse—a thousand times
worse.  But that was ten years ago, and in ten
years beggars may become rich, and scoundrels may
tread down many an honest man.  But he shall not
tread me down.  He may own my land, and fence
me in, and do what he will; but the Towers is
mine, and by heaven I will hold it!"

Discretion was one of Mrs. Trevanion's qualities.
Being relieved to find that Sam's alarming report of
the Squire's illness was exaggerated, if not wholly
imaginary, she sought with her wonted tact to divert
her husband's thoughts into a calmer channel, and
soon had him interested in purely domestic matters.

The re-opening of the Dower House was already
the all-engrossing topic of conversation among the
old wives and young wives, fishers, farmers, tradesmen,
loafers and small fry of Polkerran and the
neighbourhood.  The "wagon-full of females" of
Sam's kindling eye turned out to be one plump
woman of forty and one slim maid of half that age,
the cook and housemaid whom John Trevanion had
engaged, as afterwards appeared, in a Devonshire
village.  On the same day two heavy wagons, each
drawn by four enormous horses, arrived from Truro
with furniture, kitchen utensils, and other things
needed in setting up house, and on the next appeared
a couple of riding-horses in charge of a lively young
groom.

These important events were retailed and freely
commented on in the tap-room of the Five
Pilchards.

"We shall see brave doings up at the old house,
neighbours," said Doubledick, the innkeeper, to the
group of fishermen idling there.  "Maister John
is a fine feller, that he be.  He were allers the chap
for a randy, and 'twill be a rare change for we to
have some one as will have feastings and merry-makings
arter the miserable cold time we've had wi'
Squire."

"'A must have a heap o' gold and silver in his
purse to pay for all they fine-lookin' things we seed
goin' in," said one of the men.  "Wheer 'd he
get it all from, can 'ee tell us that, neighbour
Doubledick?"

"I might if I put my mind to it," said Doubledick
sententiously.  "But it don't matter a mossel
wheer it do come from; there 'tis, and we shall
have the good o't.  The lord-lieutenant 'll make un
a magistrate, if I know the ways o' providence, and
I do know summat about 'em, neighbours all; and
if any of 'ee are brought up afore un for a innocent
bit o' free-tradin', he'll not be the man to stretch the
law against 'ee, not he."

"'Tis a terrible affliction for Squire, to be sure,"
said another.  "There be no loving-kindness 'twixt
'em, if all's true as folks tell, and a dog can't abide
seein' another run off with his bone, that bein' my
simple way of speech."

"Squire be goin' down, that's the truth o't," said
Doubledick.  "Well, some goes up and some goes
down, and all gets level in churchyard."

Sam Pollex lost no time in making acquaintance
with the new household.  On the day after their
arrival he carried a basket of eggs to the back-door
of the Dower House, and blushed to the roots of his
hair when it was opened by a pretty Devonshire lass,
who smiled sweetly on him, asked him the price,
and said she would speak to Cook.

"She will take them," said the girl on her return,
"and bids me say you must come to-morrow and
she'll let 'ee know if any is addled.  What be the
name of 'ee, boy?"

"Sam Pollex, ma'am," said Sam sheepishly.

"And where do 'ee live?"

"Up at Towers, yonder."

"Well I never!  Bean't that where Maister's
cousin the Squire lives?"

"Iss, him and me lives there, and the mistress,
and Feyther, and Maister Dick."

"Only think of it, now!  Squire selling eggs
like a common dairyman!"

"Squire don't sell 'em; 'tis me, and I take
Mistress the money.  Sometimes it come to two or
three shilling a week, but the hens don't lay in
winter, and then I sell sides o' pork and chitterlings."

"Well, run away now, boy—Sam Pollex, did you
say?  What a funny name!  And mind you don't
lose the money."

Sam went away all aglow with admiration of the
sweet looks of the maid-servant, and told
Mrs. Trevanion how kindly she had spoken to him.
He was seized with a terrible depression of spirits
when he left his mistress's presence.

"Never go there again to sell eggs, or anything
else, Sam," she said firmly.  "Your master will be
very angry with you if he hears of it.  Here is the
money.  Take it to your father, and mind you never
do such a thing again."

Sam, with a rueful face, told Dick what had
happened.

"I should think not, indeed," said Dick indignantly.
"If I catch you going inside the gates of the Dower
House grounds again I'll break your head, young
Sam; you remember it."

For several days the Squire scarcely left the house.
Then he happened to meet John Trevanion riding
along the road.  The supplanter swept off his hat
with a mocking salutation, but the Squire passed him
without a sign of recognition.

A day or two later Sir Bevil Portharvan, owner of
an estate some miles distant, rode over to the
Towers.

"Ah, Trevanion," he said to the Squire, "how
d'ye do?  'Tis only yesterday I heard that your
cousin was the purchaser of the bonds I held.  It
must be a great comfort to you that the property has
not gone out of the family."

"Let me tell you, once for all, Sir Bevil," cried
the Squire, his cheeks red with anger, "that the
owner of the Dower House is a stranger to me.  I will
not speak to him, nor look at him, and I don't care
who knows it."

"Dear me, I am sorry," said the astonished visitor.
"I had no idea of it, or, believe me, Trevanion, I
would never——"

"Enough, Sir Bevil.  I have no grudge against
you.  You have been very long-suffering; I thank
you for it; but I would have given you my property
rather than it should fall into the hands of its present
owner.  I say no more."

And Sir Bevil told his friends that old Trevanion
was growing very crusty, and it was a pity to see
such paltry envy in a man of his years.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Cave of Seals`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE FOURTH


.. class:: center medium

   The Cave of Seals

.. vspace:: 2

Some few days afterwards, Mr. Mildmay, visiting
the Towers once more, chanced to mention that as
he passed St. Cuby's Cove in his cutter he had seen
a couple of seals disporting themselves in the shallow
water under the cliff.  The conversation passed at
once to other matters, but next morning Dick told
Sam what the lieutenant had said, and suggested
that they should go seal-hunting.  Sam was nothing
loth, and promised to accompany his young master
as soon as he had fed the poultry and cleaned out
the sties.

Seals were not often seen on the coast; indeed,
Dick had only once before heard of their appearance,
so that the proposed expedition had all the charm of
novelty.  While waiting for Sam, he went to the
kitchen, where Reuben Pollex was washing the
dishes, and asked him if he could tell him how to
tackle a seal.

"That's more than I can do, Maister Dick," said
the old man.  "I never caught nawthin' but fish and
rabbits, and maybe a stoat now and again; never
seed a seal in my life."

"They're valuable, Reuben," said Dick.  "The
skins are worth a good deal.  They are made into
coats and tippets and such things for ladies, you
know."

"The mistress wants a new coat, so 'twould come
handy, and I wish 'ee luck.  I've heerd tell that the
critters sometimes hide in the cave yonder, though
as no man, 's far 's I know, ever did see 'em there, it
may be only guesswork."

The cave mentioned was at the head of St. Cuby's
Cove.  Its entrance was exposed only at low tide,
and Dick had more than once visited it at such
times, exploring its recesses by the light of a torch
or one of the house lanterns.  He had never made
any interesting discovery there, and had for some
years ceased to visit it.

"Didn't you tell me once that there is an entrance
to the cave from the land side, Reuben?" he asked.

"Ay, folks used to say so when I was a boy, but
I don't know as there be any truth in it.  Once
upon a time, long afore my day, there was a mine
thereabouts, and maybe one of the adits ran down
to the cave; but 'tis sixty year or more since the
mine give out—in yer grandfer's time—and not a
soul have been down in the workings ever since, 's
far 's I know."

Here Sam appeared and announced that he was
ready.  The two lads, provided with a gun, a cutlass,
a lantern, and a few candle-ends, proceeded to the
spot on the beach of Trevanion Bay where their boat
was moored, launched her, and rowed round the
promontory to St. Cuby's Cove.  The tide was
running out, and as the interval during which the
cave was free from water was very short, Dick and
his companion worked the boat through the entrance
with their hands as soon as there was room for them
to pass between the roof and the surface of the sea.

The opening was at first a narrow tunnel in the
cliff, but after some yards it began to widen gradually,
and at length enlarged itself into a spacious vault, in
which there was a continuous murmur, such as is
heard on putting a shell to one's ear.  By the time
the boys reached it the tide had completely left the
cave, and the boat stranded on a sandy beach, littered
with rocks of all shapes and sizes, which had apparently
fallen at various times from the roof.  They lit
their lantern, whose yellow rays fell on jagged
granite walls, glistening shells, and slimy seaweed
covering the rocks on the floor.  Here and there
were small pools which the tide never left dry, and
where the light of the lantern revealed innumerable
little marine creatures darting this way and that with
extraordinary rapidity.

The boys made the boat fast by looping the
painter round a jagged boulder.  They moved
warily, for the seal was a beast unknown to either of
them, though Dick, in his total ignorance of these
creatures of the deep, hardly expected to find them
in the cave now that the sea had receded.  Presently,
however, they heard above the hollow murmur
another sound, like the feeble bleat of a very young
lamb.  They peered about, moving the lantern to
and fro, and at length discovered, lying on a rocky
ledge at the inmost end of the cave, two small
cream-coloured objects, scarcely more than a foot
long, whose soft eyes blinked in the light, and from
whose mouths issued plaintive cries of alarm.

"Bean't they proper little mites!" said Sam,
putting out his hand to touch them.

"Don't do that!" cried Dick hastily; "the old
ones may be about, and if they're like other beasts,
they'll attack us if they think we'll hurt their
young."

"Shan't we take 'em, then?" asked Sam.

"Of course not; they're too young."

"And shan't we look for the old uns?"

"No; the young ones would die if we killed the
parents.  We must come again later on, when they're
old enough to take care of themselves.  But our
day shan't be wasted.  We'll see if we can find the
other entrance to the cave."

"What other entrance?"

"Your father says 'tis thought that at one time
there was a way in from an adit above."

"I can't believe it.  The free-traders would have
found it long afore this if so 'twere."

"I don't know.  The adit wouldn't be an easy
passage for them with their bales and kegs.  But
don't let us waste time; the tide will be running
back soon."

They followed the irregular circuit of the cave,
thrusting the lantern into every recess and hollow,
holding it high and low, but discovering nothing
except the same rugged and apparently impenetrable
wall.

"There bean't no opening," said Sam at length.
"'Twas fiddle-faddle to say there be."

"Perhaps it is high above us, out of reach,"
suggested Dick.

"Where's the sense o' that?" replied Sam,
disappointed of the anticipated sport.  "What mortal
good would it be to any soul alive to make an
opening where 'ee'd break yer neck if you come
to it?"

Dick did not answer, craning his neck to scan the
heights above him.  The light of the lantern failed
to penetrate the overarching gloom.  The roof of
the cave was invisible, and the walls appeared to rise
perpendicularly, with projections here and there that
looked, in the spectral glimmer, like the grotesque
gargoyles on a church-tower.

"I'd like to climb up there," said Dick at length.

"Lawk-a-massy, you'd break yer neck for sure.
'Tis a 'mazing hard job to climb the cliff arter gulls'
eggs, but this be death and burial."

"We could do it with a ladder."

"Our ladder bean't long enough by half; the
only ladders long enough be they in church-tower,
and they be too heavy to lug here, and sexton
wouldn't let us take 'em.  Scrounch it all, Maister
Dick, I do think 'ee be muddled in yer head to think
o' sech daring doings.  See now, tide's comin' in, and
we don't want to be drownded."

"That's the most sensible thing you've said for a
while, Sam.  We'll go now, but I won't give it up.
We'll get a ladder, or make one, and come back
another day.  I'm determined to find out if there
really is an opening."

"Well, Feyther says most heads do have a magget
in 'em, like turmits, and this be yours; 'tis
indeed."

They loosed the boat, and paddled out as they
had come, Dick resolving, in spite of his follower's
damping attitude, to return before long, and make a
thorough exploration of the place.

Later in the day, as he walked home from the
Parsonage, he was struck with an idea of a
contrivance for serving his purpose.  He consulted old
Reuben about it when he got home, and Sam, on
returning from an errand in the village, found his
father and Dick hard at work in an outhouse,
splicing short lengths of rope, and fixing them at
regular intervals between two thin but strong poles
about six feet long.

"What be doin', Feyther?" asked Sam.

"Use yer eyes, sonny, and put a name to 't
yerself," replied Reuben.

"Well, if I was to speak my thought, I'd say 'ee
was makin' a ladder that 'ud let a man down as soon
as he put a foot on it."

"Then 'tis for you to make it stronger, my son,
babe and sucklin' as 'ee be.  T'ud be a sin to let so
much cleverness run to seed.  Strip off yer coat and
lay into it, and keep yer tongue quiet, for if 'ee set
all the organs of yer body goin' at once, you'll die
young."

This implied rebuke had the effect of making Sam
enter zealously into the work, and before supper
two light ladders were finished, each six feet long,
which, together with a short ladder of the ordinary
kind that Reuben used in his duties about the
premises, provided Dick with a total length of
eighteen or twenty feet.  His notion was to carry
these separate pieces down to the cave, and then
lash them together to form one continuous whole.

He fixed on the following afternoon for his second
visit to the cave.  The morning turned out very
wet, the rain pouring down in quite unusual
volume; but the sky cleared after dinner, and the
two boys set off, timing themselves as before to
reach the cave when the ebbing tide left the entrance
free.  Again the baby seals were alone, and much as
Dick would have liked a tussle with their parents,
his sporting bent was for the time subordinate to his
wish to find the supposed landward entrance to the
cave.

The ladder perfectly answered its purpose, but it
was disappointing to find that it was by no means
long enough.  Even when Dick, the taller of the
two, stood on the topmost rung, Sam holding the
ladder steady at the bottom, he saw that the walls
still stretched for several feet above him.  But the
roof was now in sight, an irregular arch, consisting
of knobs, wedges, and inverted pyramids of rock,
and Dick felt the tantalising certainty that the
opening, if opening there was, could not be far away.

They went all round the cave, setting the ladder
up at frequent intervals, Dick exploring every foot
of the jagged wall with the aid of his lantern.  There
were plenty of recesses and depressions, ranging
from a finger's breadth to the length of his arm;
but he did not find one where he was unable to
touch the back of it with his outstretched hand.
It was clear that the opening, if it existed, must be
above his head.

"We shall have to make another length of ladder,
and come back again," he said to Sam.  "I won't
give it up."

He was standing high on the ladder as he spoke,
dangling the lantern by a ring at the top.  The
words were scarcely out of his mouth when there
was a tremendous crash, which shook the place, and
so much startled him that, in an instinctive
movement to cling on to something, he let the lantern
fall.  It lighted fairly on the top of Sam's head,
bounced off, and dropped with a thud to the sandy
floor, where the candle was instantly extinguished.

"Are you hurt, Sam?" cried Dick, anxiously.

"Rabbit it all!" roared Sam, in high indignation.
"Do 'ee think my head be wood then?  Bean't
I got feelings like any other common man?  My
skull have got a furrow in it a yard long, and I may
rub it till I'm dead, I'll never straighten it out
again."

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it, Sam.  Light
the candle again, will you, so that we can see what
has happened."

Sam growled and grunted as he struck a light
from his tinder-box.  The rekindled candle revealed
a strange catastrophe.  A huge mass of the wall and
roof of the cavern had collapsed, owing perhaps to the
heavy rains in the morning, and the débris was lying
in a heap against the opening of the tunnel leading
to the exterior.

"If this bean't a pretty kettle of fish, never call me
Sam again," said the boy in consternation.  "'Tis
closed up; we be shet in."

Dick climbed down the ladder, and crossed the
floor of the cave to see the extent of the mischief.
It was as Sam had said.  Their exit was barred by a
mass of rock and loose soil that must weigh several
tons.

"Quick, Sam!" cried Dick, "we must work
hard to clear it away.  The tide will be on the turn,
and we don't want to be imprisoned here all night."

They began to work with all haste, but soon
found that the task would be a long one.  The
smaller pieces of rock were easily cast aside; but
there were many large masses which, besides being
heavy and cumbersome themselves, were very
difficult to move by reason of the earth in which
they were imbedded.  The boys had made but little
progress when the sea began to creep in.

"We'll be drownded alive!" said Sam, now in a
state of terror.

"Work, then.  Shove your hardest, Sam; we'll
do it yet."

They tugged and hauled and pushed with fierce
energy, and by employing their united strength upon
the largest masses, they succeeded in clearing a path
wide enough to allow room for the boat.  By this
time the water was almost up to their knees, and
they heard the boat graze the rocks as it floated on
the incoming tide.  Loosing the painter, they pushed
the craft through the tunnel, only to find, when they
approached the seaward opening, that but a small
segment of the sky was visible, the gap being too
shallow to afford a passage.

"We are trapped, Sam; there's no denying it,"
said Dick quietly.  "But don't be alarmed.  I
don't suppose the water reaches the roof of the cave
even at high tide, so that we can float in the boat
quite safely.  It only means a few hours' imprisonment."

"If I've got to be jailed, I'd rather be in village
lock-up; 'tis dry at any rate.  Can't we swim out,
Maister Dick?"

"Of course we can, but I doubt whether we had
better do it.  There's a dozen yards or more under
water first, and then a good half-mile outside before
we can land.  We should get pretty well knocked
about on the rocks if there's any swell on the sea.
We had much better stay here."

Sam gloomily assented to this course.  They got
into the boat, and sat there for some time watching
it rise gradually as the tide grew higher.

"Hang me for a jackass!" cried Dick suddenly.

"What have 'ee been and done?" asked Sam
with concern.

"Why, we haven't got gun, cutlass, or any other
weapon."

"'A b'lieve not," said Sam, "but we couldn't
keep out the tide with un if we had forty guns and
fifty cutlasses."

"The seals!  They'll come back with the tide,
and be in a terrible rage with us, thinking we're
after their babies."

"Be-jowned if I thought of it!  'Twas a true
word; you do be a great jackass, sure enough."

"Mind what you say, Sam, or I'll throw you out."

"'Twas your word, not mine.  I wouldn't go so
far as that.  Ninnyhammer is the worst I'd call 'ee.
But I told 'ee how 'twould be, with yer head
itchin' with this magget of openin's and ladders and
all that."

"Be ready to use the boat-hook, or the anchor, if
the seals attack us.  I'll use one of the oars."

"I don't believe we'll have to fight at all," cried
Sam.  "Look 'ee!  There be they two young
seals swimmin' out to find the old uns.  They
bean't so young as you thought if they can swim
like that, and we med as well have took 'em
yesterday as not."

"Well, 'tis too late now.  They're gone."

"To get their supper, I reckon.  I be mortal
hungry, Maister Dick, arter all that work.  Have
'ee got a morsel of bread in yer pocket?"

"Not a bit."

"Not a apple or codling?"

"Not one."

"I could eat a turmit or a raw tater.  But don't
name 'em to me, or I shall feel very bad for thinkin'
of 'em.  Best thing is to go to sleep when yer
hungry, 'cos you don't feel it then."

"Well, sleep.  I'll wake you if anything happens."

The boy curled himself up in the bottom of the
boat, and soon filled the cavern with his snores.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`St. Cuby's Well`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE FIFTH


.. class:: center medium

   St. Cuby's Well

.. vspace:: 2

To see another eat when oneself is hungry, or
sleep when oneself is wakeful, is surely very trying
to the temper, except to those happily-constituted
individuals who are incapable of envy.  Dick
Trevanion was as generous-hearted a boy as you
could wish; but as the time went by, unmarked by
anything but the slow rise of the boat and the quick
dwindling of the candle in the lantern, he looked
at Sam's open mouth with impatience, listened to his
untuneful solo with dislike, and felt a deplorable
desire to kick him.  He had no watch, and bethought
himself that it might be as well, when he got home,
to test the duration of a candle, so that if he were
ever in such a predicament again he might at least
have a clock of King Alfred's sort.  Every now and
then he snuffed the coarse wick, and when the tallow
had sunk almost to the socket, he substituted another
candle-end that he happened to have in his pocket.
Beyond this he had nothing to employ him.

But by-and-by, as the roof of the vault came
nearer to him with the gradual lifting of the boat,
an idea struck him.  Why not use the boat as a
raised platform for the ladder, and so contrive to
examine an additional ten or twelve feet of the
walls?  The ladder!—it was floating on the surface
of the water, heaving simultaneously with the boat
as the tide gently rippled in.

"Wake up, Sam!" he called.

Sam snored on.

"Wake up!" cried Dick again, leaning over and
pinching the sleeper's nose.

Sam struck out with his fist, as any honest English
boy would have done, without opening his eyes.
But at a third call he roused himself, sat up, and
rubbing those heavy organs vigorously, sighed like a
furnace, and then said sleepily:

"Why, where be I?"

"In dreamland, I should think," replied Dick,
laughing.  "Wake up!  I want you to hold the
ladder against the wall while I climb again."

"In twelve feet o' water!  Not me; I bean't
growed enough for that.  'Tis work for a giant."

"Not on the ground, of course; in the boat, I
mean."

Sam looked dubious.

"Won't it wamble?  And if you tumble you'll
sink us."

"Well, we can try.  Take hold of the end of the
ladder floating by you, and I'll paddle close to the
wall."

On lifting the ladder, they found that its top
came within a few feet of the roof.  But when Dick
began to climb, he descended in a hurry, for the
ladder being of necessity set up at an angle, every
upward step drove the boat from the wall towards
the middle of the cave.

"Be-jowned if we can do it!" cried Sam.  "That
there openin' will be the death o' me."

Dick was at a loss.  There was no way of keeping
the boat in a fixed position.  Even if he dropped
the anchor and it held in the sandy bottom, the boat
would still have a range of movement that altogether
prohibited the success of his plan.  He looked
gloomily at Sam; it was vexatious to be baulked
when achievement was so near.  Sam, with his
hands on the sides of the ladder, was gazing up its
length, his eyes gradually converging as they
travelled higher, until they seemed almost to be
looking at each other.  All at once they reverted to
their natural position, and he cried:

"I've got a noble thought, I do b'lieve."

"What's that?"

"Why, 'tis as easy as anything.  See that place,
Maister Dick, up aloft there, where the wall goes in
summat?"

"Well, what then?"

"I'll show 'ee.  You'd never ha' thought of it,
'cos you was lookin' down instead o' lookin' up."

He drew down the ladder until its whole length
lay along one side of the boat.

"Look 'ee here," he said.  "We'll take the
anchor, and fix it upright in middle of the ladder,
lash it to the top rung, do 'ee see?"  He suited the
action to the word.  "There!  Now 'tis a hook, or
a clutch, or whatever name you like to gie un.
We'll lift un again till it hooks on that ledge; then
it will hang free, and you can climb as easy as
climbing trees."

"A capital notion, Sam," cried Dick.

"I said it was, purticler for a poor mazy stunpoll
of a feller like me."

"You're a genius if it works out.  The thing is
to try it."

Raising the ladder to its former position, they
moved it along the face of the wall until one fluke
of the anchor held firmly to the ledge of rock, as
they proved by exerting a considerable downward
strain.

"This is splendid," said Dick.  "Now to go up."

"Ah, don't 'ee take the lantern with 'ee this time.
I don't want no more cracks on the nob, and if it
fell again, 't 'ud get soused in the water, and then
we'd be in darkness."

"You're right.  I'll take the candle out and stick
it in my hat as the miners do.  I must have a light,
of course."

"I reckon you must, if you be goin' to find that
openin'," said Sam, sceptical to the last.

Dick stuck the lighted candle into the band of his
hat, stepped out of the boat, and began to climb,
Sam watching his progress and offering bits of
cautionary counsel.  In a few seconds, when Dick's
head projected above the anchor, he saw that the
ledge of rock, extending for some distance on both
sides, was the floor of a roughly rectangular fissure,
which penetrated the earth much as the tunnel below
penetrated the cliff.  It ran upwards.  The smoky
light from the candle did not reach far, but Dick,
peering over the ledge, was unable to see any solid
background to the fissure.

"I've found the opening!" he said.

"What do 'ee say?" called Sam.  "Yer voice
sounds all a mumble and a rumble."

Clinging firmly to the ledge with both hands,
Dick lowered his head and repeated the words.

"Now yer satisfied, then," said Sam.  "Better
come down afore the candle goes out."

"No.  I'm going on."

"But chok' it all, you won't leave me all alone!
I'm not afeard, not I; but if there be three or
four seals a-comin' home by-and-by, I can't fight
'em all."

"You must come up too when I've looked a
little farther."

"But you can't climb on to the ledge without
summat to hold to.  Maister Dick, think of yer
feyther and mother, and what I'm to say if 'ee falls
and breaks yer neck, and I take 'ee home a gashly
corp."

"Don't talk rubbish.  I shan't fall if you don't
worry me.  I'm not going to sit for hours longer in
the boat till the tide goes down, so hold your tongue
till I am safe aloft."

Leaning well forward, he carefully lifted his foot
to the next rung, then to the next, watching the
anchor to see that it was not displaced by his
movements.  Then he got one knee on the rocky shelf,
stretched his arms in front of him, and with a sudden
movement heaved his body on to the ledge and fell
flat, his feet projecting into space.  He crawled
along on hands and knees until his boots disappeared
from Sam's view, and stood up within the dark
entrance of the fissure.

"I'm up, Sam," he called, his voice reverberating
hollowly in the vault.

"Then I be comin' too," cried the boy.

"Not yet.  You must wait a little until I see
where the opening leads to.  I'll come back for you
presently."

He turned his face to the opening and went in.
Dim as the light was, he recognised almost at once
that he was at the end of a mine adit.  Within a few
paces the fissure narrowed to a dwarf tunnel, through
which a tiny stream trickled, disappearing, not over
the ledge into the cave, but into a fissure in the
wall of rock.  There was space for only two persons
to pass abreast, and as Dick proceeded, he had
to bend his head to avoid striking the roof.  He
was about to explore further, when he remembered
that the candle in his hat could not last more than
a few minutes, and to advance in the dark would be
foolhardy.  He had no more candles, and supposed
that Sam had none, so that it seemed as if he must
postpone further exploration.  But returning to the
ledge, he saw a light in the cave.

"You've got some more candle-ends, then?" he cried.

"One, that I've just fished up out of my pocket
along with a bit of string, some bait, a bit o' pudden
that I'd forgot—can't eat it now, hungry as I be, 'cos
'tis all tallowed—and a green penny."

"I want the candle, Sam; mine's going out.  Can
you pitch it up?"

"I can, but it 'ud only fall back into the water
and go to the bottom."

"Wait.  I've a bit of string in my pocket.  I'll
let it down; tie the candle on."

"I must do it, I suppose.  Iss, you shall have it,
and I'll be left in the dark, but I'm not
afeard—not very."

In a minute Dick had the fresh candle in his
hat-band, and once more entered the tunnel.

It was very damp, and Dick guessed from the
trickling stream at his feet that the adit had been
designed, when the mine was in operation, to drain
the upper workings.  How long ago this was he
had no idea.  It must have been long before old
Reuben's time, or the man would have had more
definite knowledge than he actually possessed, and
the existence of the opening would have been known
as a fact instead of being a mere fragment of village
tradition.

Dick went on.  In some parts the tunnel was
almost impassable with earth and rocks that had
fallen in.  Step as cautiously as he might, every
now and then the rattle of loose earth displaced
by his movements caused a cold shiver to run
down his back.  What if there should be a fall
behind him which would cut off his retreat to
the cave?  The tunnel ought to lead to an opening
to the air above, but the way might be blocked,
and the possibility of being entombed was daunting.
But having come so far Dick was unwilling to give
in.  The peril might be purely imaginary.  Plucking
up his courage, he hastened his steps, and after
a few minutes came to an enlargement of the tunnel.
To his left a second gallery ran downward at a
sharp angle with that in which he was; no doubt
this also led to some point of the shore.  Still
advancing, he saw, with some surprise, that the passage
was strutted in places, and much freer from
obstructions than the portion he had already traversed.
About a hundred yards beyond the transverse gallery,
however, his progress was suddenly checked: the
whole width of the tunnel was filled with a mass of
rocks, stones, and loose earth.  A few seconds'
examination sufficed to show the impossibility of
proceeding farther in this direction; accordingly
he retraced his steps and, a few yards away, came
to another passage, to find, however, after twenty
or thirty paces, that he was again brought to a
stop.

This time the obstruction was of a different nature.
It was a rough door made of stout wooden beams,
closed with a heavy bar resting in sockets.  He
lifted the bar and pulled the creaking door, which
came towards him for an inch or two, and then
stuck.  To open it fully he had to remove from the
floor a number of planks and beams, which appeared
to be the parts of a broken windlass.  Having got
the door open and passed through, he found himself
in a square chamber that smelt very damp and close,
though, on looking upwards, he could see no roof.
He concluded that he was at the bottom of a deep
shaft.  But it had not the look of a mine shaft,
which, so far as Dick's experience went, was always
timbered.  The walls here were cased with stone,
moss-grown and damp.

Near the doorway he caught sight of a staple of
rusty iron let into the wall; a little above this, a
second of the same kind; and at the same interval
above the second, a third.  Looking up the wall, he
perceived that similar staples projected from the
stonework as far up as the flickering light of his
candle revealed.  Their shape, and the intervals
between them, indicated that they were steps by
which the wall could be climbed.  And then it
flashed upon him suddenly that he was in an ancient
well, known as St. Cuby's Well, though who
St. Cuby was nobody knew except, perhaps,
Mr. Carlyon, deeply learned in the antiquities of his
county.  The upper end of the well-shaft opened
on the cliff, about a quarter-mile from the cottage of
old Joe Penwarden, the exciseman.  It was covered by
the ivy-grown ruins of a small oratory, whither in
times long past the faithful had come to have their
children baptised in the water of the holy well, to
drink of it for the cure of their diseases, and to offer
up vows and repeat prayers before the sacred cross.

Strange as it may seem, Dick's first impulse, when
the identity of his whereabouts flashed upon him,
was to dash through the doorway and scamper with
all imaginable speed back to the cave.  He was not
more superstitious than other boys of his age; but
in those days, before old beliefs and fancies had
undergone the cold douche of science, people were
credulous of omens and spells, blessings and curses,
beneficent influences and the evil eye.  From
St. Cuby's Well the aroma of sanctity had long since
departed; according to village tradition, a murder of
peculiar horror had once been committed there; and
now it was shunned as a plague spot.  No pilgrims
came to kneel beneath the sacred roof; no children
ever played hide and seek among its picturesque
ruins; everybody, from the Squire downwards,
avoided it, and at night not a man would have
ventured within a hundred yards of its unhallowed
precincts.  Stories were rife of apparitions seen
there; it was these ghosts of which Ike Pendry had
spoken to John Trevanion on the night when he
had overtaken the trudging pedestrian on the high
road.

Dick, of course, had no belief in ghosts, and
regarded the stories with as much intellectual
contempt as his father gave to the witch's couplet.
But his imagination was subject to impressions which
his reason scorned; and in the gloom of the
well-shaft, which the yellow rays of his candle rendered
more awful than complete darkness could have been,
these vague conceptions of murder, sacrilege, and
midnight hauntings possessed his mind so completely
as at first to overwhelm his common-sense.  But he
resolutely crushed down these figments of his
imagination, told himself that such evil traditions
might probably be traced to no more real origin than
the failure of the spring of water, and decided to go
back for his companion and put an end to their
captivity by climbing up the iron steps to the surface
of the cliff.

"Oh, I am glad to see 'ee," cried Sam, as his
young master's head appeared at the brink of the
ledge.  "I bean't afeard, not I, but 'twas 'nation
dark, and I felt a queer wamblin' in the inside o'
me, 'cos I'm tarrible hungry, I reckon."

"Well, come along.  I've found the way out.
The opening leads to St. Cuby's Well, and we can
climb to the top in no time."

"St. Cuby's Well!  Dash my bones if I go
within a mile o't.  Dead men's bones, and sperits
o' darkness—no, never will I do it."

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Dick, as stoutly as
if he had never felt the least tremor on his own
account.  "I've seen no bones, and the spirits
haven't laid a hand on me.  Those silly tales only
frighten children."

"And females.  Ah, 'tis a pity the mistress won't
let me take eggs and things to the Dower House.
What I could tell to that nice young female wi' the
hole in her rosy cheeks!  How they'd go yaller
and white when she heerd my tale of blood, and
ghosteses in night-gowns, and all the other things o'
darkness!  Ah, 'twas to be, I s'pose: she'll hear it
from some one else, and I shan't get the credit
of it."

"No; she'll hear that you were too much of a
baby to face 'em, and she'll despise you, instead of
thinking well of you as she does now."

"Don't say it, Maister Dick," cried the boy.
"Scrounch me if I lose my fame in that miserable
way.  I'll come, if you'll stand by me, and hold my
hand if we hears a noise, and use your finest
language to the sperits if they meddle wi' us.  I've
heerd tell that the Lord's prayer said back'ards will
tarrify 'em out of their wits, but I reckon yer head's
full of ancient heathen words that go straightfor'ard,
and won't put 'ee to such a tarrible tax as turnin'
religion topsy-turvy."

This was said as Sam climbed with deliberate care
up the ladder.  He gained the ledge more easily
than Dick had done, having the help of Dick's hand.

"Can we get there afore candle's out?" he said
anxiously, when they stood side by side.

"If we make haste," replied Dick, taking off his
hat and looking at the inch-and-a-half of candle left,
and the mass of tallow that lay on the brim like a
small lake of lava.  "We can fetch the boat at
low-tide to-morrow."

They hurried on, and, Dick knowing the way,
reached the shaft in much quicker time than when he
had come alone.  Sam got behind him at the doorway,
peering under his armpits with wide eyes, and
taking much comfort when he saw nothing but mossy
walls.

"I'm downright shamed o' folks that believe in
such gammut," he said, valiantly following Dick
into the chamber.

"Well, now we'll climb up.  It must be after
sunset, or we should see a glimmer of light at the
top.  I'll go first."

"No, I'd better go first," said Sam hastily,
looking round with something of his former air of
timorous expectation.  "You see, if you go first, the
brim of yer hat will shet out all the light, and I'll miss
my footing and be nawthin' but scattered members.
But if I go first, do 'ee see, and you come close
behind me—but not close enough to set my stockings
afire—the light will be ekal betwixt us two.  Do 'ee
see my manin', Maister Dick?"

"Quite plain.  I don't mind.  We'll try one or
two of the staples first, to make sure they are firm in
the stonework, and then you can mount, and as
your hind foot leaves one step, my fore hand will
clutch it."

The staples stood the test of pulling, first by Dick,
then by Sam, who also tried them, on the plea that
he had more muscle.  Then Sam began to climb,
followed closely by Dick.  After an ascent of perhaps
a hundred feet, the former declared that he felt a
whiff of fresh air, and immediately afterwards the
candle flame was blown out.  Looking up past
Sam's fore-shortened body, Dick saw one star in the
clear dark vault of the sky, and in a few seconds
they were both standing on the ground beside the
well-head, cooled by the breeze that blew through
the ruined walls of the chapel from the sea.  The
roof had gone long ago; grass grew on the floor,
and ivy twined itself in and out of the mullioned
windows.

"There!" said Dick.  "We are safe, you see.
All that talk of ghosts is pure balderdash."

The darkness and the weird associations of the
spot combined to make him set his tone of voice to
a murmur.  At that moment there fell upon the
ears of the boys, as they stood side by side to
recover breath after their climb, a low sound from
somewhere beyond the walls, but not far away.  It
was like that of a person speaking in hollow,
mournful accents.  Sam caught Dick by the arm; Dick
heard his teeth chatter.

"'Tis he!" whispered the trembling boy.  "'Tis
the ghost!  Oh! let me hide myself afore he see I."

Dick did not reply.  He was, it must be confessed,
sufficiently startled.  The sound ceased; but in a
moment or two it recommenced, now being somewhat
louder.  Dick was in two minds, now thinking
that he would run, now wondering whether he had
not better stay.  The slow droning still approached,
and at last he caught articulate words:

"A-deary me!  A-deary me!  The world's
a-cold, a bitter place for——"

The next words were indistinguishable.

"Hark to him!" whispered Sam.  "He be in
mortal pain, and I do feel that leery all down the
small o' my back."

Dick sniffed, and sniffed again.  Then he said:

"Ghosts don't smoke, Sam—at any rate, not
tobacco.  I'm going to see."

"How do 'ee know?" whispered Sam, still
holding him by the arm.  "I won't be so much
afeard of him if he do be smoking bacca, but it
may be summat else.  It do smell rayther strong for
a livin' man."

He followed Dick as he groped his way over
fragments of masonry and through close-woven
masses of ivy and weeds, until they came into the
open.  The night was very dark.  The first thing
they saw, at a distance of about twelve yards, was a
small red glow, which brightened and faded at
intervals.  Drawing nearer to it cautiously, they
perceived at the moments of greatest brightness that
it lit up for an instant a grizzled chin, a sunken
mouth, a quite ordinary nose, a ruddy face with
a black patch over one eye, and a black hat over all.

"'Tis old Joe Penwarden," said Dick, in a tone
that expressed surprise, relief, and a shame-faced
consciousness.

"So 'tis, I do believe," cried Sam.  "Be-jowned
if 'a didn't ought to be locked up for playing such
gashly tricks on poor souls."

"Avast there!  Stand, in the King's name!"
cried the old man, hearing their voices.

"So we will, so we will," said Sam.  "Don't 'ee
be afeard, maister; we bean't ghosteses, but just
common mortals like yerself."

"Oh! 'tis you, Maister Dick," said Penwarden,
as the boys came up to him.  "'Pon my life, I
was skeered for about a second and a half, never
expectin' to see mortal men in this old haunt.  What
be 'ee doin' at this time o' night, in such a place,
too?"

"What time is it, Joe?" asked Dick.

"Time all young things like lambs and birds and
boys were abed and asleep.  'Tis past ten."

"Lawk-a-massy, if I didn't think it by the terrible
emptiness in my inside," cried Sam, feelingly.
"Come home-along, Maister Dick; I be mortal
afeard as Feyther will send me to bed wi'out any
supper."

"Wait a bit," replied Dick.  "Where do you
think we've been, Joe?"

"Not night-fishing, for ye've got no tackle.  Nor
rabbitin', for ye've got no snares.  Ah, well!  Ye
med as well tell me first as last, for I be no good at
guessin'."

"We've come up St. Cuby's Well."

"Come up, you say; but you must go down
afore ye come up.  I wouldn't like to say I don't
believe 'ee."

"That would be very unfriendly.  The truth is,
Joe, we were down in the cave and got shut in by
the tide, and to pass the time away we climbed up
over a ledge and found ourselves in an old adit, and
went along it till we came to the well-shaft.  There
are iron steps in the wall, and up we came."

"Well, if that bean't the queerest thing I've heerd
for many a day.  Who would ever ha' thowt it!"

"Didn't you know there were steps down the well side?

"Never heerd tell o' sech a thing."

"But haven't you seen it for yourself?  I was
thinking that, perhaps, you being here now, you
knew all about it, and the idea did cross me that you
might be the ghost people talk about, though to be
sure you don't look like one."

"Bless 'ee, I've never set foot inside they walls.
Sometimes of a night I come ramblin' round to
smoke a peaceful pipe and meditate on the days o'
my youth afore I turn in, but as for goin'
inside—no, I've never thowt o't."

"Was 'ee afeard you med see the ghost, maister?"
asked Sam, rejoicing to think that he had a fellow in
timorousness.

"Well, no.  A ghost is a sperit, they say, and I
reckon I've got enough muscle in my aged arm to
fend off a thing as has got no body."

"Still, you was talkin' to yerself as if ye was in
great pain and sorrer.  'A-deary me,' 'ee said; I
heard 'ee twice; and then 'the world's a-cold,'—and
I s'pose 'ee felt the need o' takin' a comfortin'
pull at yer pipe, for I heerd no more."

"It do show how young small chickerels like 'ee
may be mistaken.  Whenever I talk like that I be
feelin' warmish and contented; remember that,
young Sam, and don't traipse about spreadin' false
reports about me.  Moreover, don't 'ee tell nothing
of yer climbing up the well, for 'a don't want the
village rampin' round, spoilin' my peacefulness.
St. Cuby's ghost hev his uses, and long may he walk."

"Very well, Joe," said Dick, "we'll say nothing
about it.  There have been no runs yet, I suppose?"

"No; 'tis early days for that.  'Tis true as
Mr. Mildmay was called off Morvah way to-day.
Maybe they'll try a run there to-night.  But it
won't be long afore we have trouble here, I reckon,
for the pilchurs are late this year, and when they're
late, smugglin' is early, 'cos the men get tired o'
doin' nothing."

"Well, we had better be going.  I usually tell
Mother when I expect to be late, fishing or what not,
and she'll wonder what has become of me.  Are you
coming our way, Joe?"

"Not yet, sir.  I've a bit more meditation to get
through first."

"What do you meditate about?" asked Dick.

"About my days o' youth, when I was a nimble
young feller and served the King afloat.  Ah! they
were days, they were.  Lord Admiral Nelson be a fine
little chap, but nothing to the admiral I served with."

"Who was that?"

"Lord Admiral Rodney.  Never shall I forget
the time he spoke to me: yes, lord as he was, he
did so.  It do warm me of a cold night to think of
it.  Not every simple mariner could say he'd been
spoke to ashore by sech a high person as a admiral."

"What did the lord high admiral say to 'ee?"
asked Sam, much impressed.

"Well, 'twas on Plymouth Hoe, and the admiral
was walking with two handsome females, showing
'em Drake's Island; Drake was another mariner,
you must know, as lived about a thousand year ago,
seemingly.  Well, I turned round to look at the great
man, and that moment he changed his course, put
up his helm, ye may say, and ran across my bows.
'Get out o' the way, you cross-eyed son of a
sea-cook!' says he to me.  Ah! never shall I forget it,
nor the tinkly laugh o' they fine females.  'Twas
a great honour to be spoke to special by Lord
Admiral Rodney, a fine feller of a man."

"I don't wonder it keeps you warm," said Dick,
laughing.  "Good-night, Joe."

"Good-night to you, sir.  And young Sam, mind
'ee o' what I said."

"Make yourself easy, maister," returned Sam.
"Oh, dear, what a thing it 'ud be to tell the maidy at
the Dower House if on'y Squire warn't so cruel!"

"What are you mumblin' about?"

"Nawthin', Maister Penwarden.  I were on'y
thinkin' to myself what a lot o' folk 'ud be mazed if
they knowed what sorrerful things ye do say when
yer happy."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Penwarden does his Duty`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE SIXTH


.. class:: center medium

   Penwarden does his Duty

.. vspace:: 2

Late as it was, neither Dick nor Sam was fated to
get any sleep for hours.  They walked rapidly
without speaking across the cliff towards the Towers,
being in fact so tired and hungry that the thoughts
of both were fixed on supper and bed.  There was
no path on this part of the cliff, except a faint track
which daylight would have revealed, where the
grass had been slightly worn by Joe Penwarden
in his marchings to and fro.  Ordinary pedestrians
always avoided the windings of the shore, taking the
high road farther inland.

The boys had come within a hundred yards of
Penwarden's cottage, when Sam all at once took Dick
by the sleeve, saying:

"Look, Maister Dick, there be some one at old
Joe's door."

It was too dark to see clearly, but Dick could
just distinguish, now that it was pointed out to him,
a dark form close against the whitewashed cottage
on the side facing the sea.

"It's very odd at this time of night," he said.
"We had better go and tell the man, whoever he is,
where he can find Joe."

They hurried on, but had not gone more than
half-way to the cottage when the figure moved
from the door, and walked quickly in the direction
of the Towers.  There was a footpath at the back
of the garden, over which the villagers had an
immemorial right of way, though it was really the
Squire's private property.

Dick was on the point of calling out when Sam
checked him.

"That be Jake Tonkin," he said, quietly: "I
know un by his bow legs.  What med he want wi'
old Joe, now?"

Jake was the son of Isaac Tonkin, the expertest
fisher, the boldest seaman, and the most cunning and
resourceful smuggler in the village.  Isaac was a
rough, quick-tempered fellow, violent when roused,
but honest according to his lights; and Dick had a
certain admiration for him, as every boy must have
for a strong man who excels in bold and daring
deeds.  Once or twice he had gone fishing in
Tonkin's smack, and had learnt a good deal from
the man's blunt speech and craftsmanlike actions.

It was perfectly well known in the neighbourhood
that Tonkin was the ringleader of the smugglers,
but owing to his wariness and craft, and to the
supineness of the revenue officer who had preceded
Mr. Mildmay, nothing had ever been openly proved
against him, and he had never been caught in the
act.  In the previous winter he had narrowly escaped
a conflict with Mr. Mildmay, then in his first year
of duty at this part of the coast; and it was common
talk in the village that he resented the intrusion, as
he regarded it, of so zealous an officer, and had
promised to give the revenue men a very hot time
if they interfered with him.  It was he whose
presence John Trevanion had remarked as he passed
the open door of the tap-room in Doubledick's inn.

Dick was as much surprised as Sam to find that
Penwarden's visitor was Tonkin's son.  There was
naturally no love lost between the exciseman and the
free-traders, who had, however, looked upon him
with a sort of contemptuous tolerance until
Mr. Mildmay came.  The old man had been harmless
enough in the days of Mr. Curgenven; not that he
was remiss in his duty, but that his efforts had been
rendered nugatory by his superior's apathy.  The
advent of Mr. Mildmay acted as a stimulus;
Penwarden was in truth fearful of being thought too old
for his work, and seemed to set himself deliberately
to prove the contrary to the officer.  More than
once in the previous winter he had prevented a run
by his timely warnings; and though the checks were
only temporary, the smugglers were annoyed with
him for the difficulties he threw in their way.  It
was therefore strange that young Tonkin should
have gone to visit, so late at night, a man from
whom the smugglers in general held severely aloof.
Suddenly Dick remembered what Penwarden had
said about Mr. Mildmay having been summoned to
Morvah, twenty-five miles or more down the coast.
It was a favourite device of the smugglers, by aid
of confederates, to decoy the officers to distant parts
when they were intending to make a run, and
Dick could not help wondering whether they were
putting it in practice on the present occasion.  But
it did not explain Jake Tonkin's visit, and Dick was
now sufficiently interested to think no more of his
fatigue and hunger in his desire to ascertain what
was afoot.  He knew that it was no business of his;
the Squire had carefully abstained from taking sides
in the perennial quarrel between the smugglers and
the revenue men, and had indeed resigned his
magistracy, partly because of his reduced
circumstances, but quite as much in order to avoid any
official action as a county justice.  Dick did not
intend to break this neutrality; he was simply
curious and athirst for excitement.

But he reflected that he could hardly satisfy his
curiosity without spying on Jake Tonkin, and this
was out of the question.  He would have ruefully
done nothing more had he not seen that the lad,
instead of keeping to the path that ran directly to
the village, struck off to the left along a track that
led nowhere but to the Dower House.  This raised
his curiosity to a still higher pitch.  What had
Tonkin to do with John Trevanion?  Knowing that
his father and John were on bad terms, and having
seen many little indications that the latter was bent on
annoying his cousin, it was natural that he should
wonder whether the interests of the Squire were in
any way affected by the apparent connection between
John and the smugglers.  After a little hesitation,
he sent Sam into the Towers, to reassure his
parents and then go to bed, and went on himself
after the waddling figure of Jake Tonkin, now
almost out of sight.

Walking quickly, he was in time to see Jake
enter an outhouse at the rear of the mansion.  The
door closed behind him, and Dick, taking a look
round, and seeing no one, ran swiftly to the building
and peeped through the window.  The room was
lighted by a single candle, whose rays fell on the
forms of a dozen men seated on chairs, stools, pails,
and the table.  All had their faces blackened, and
he failed to discover among them the large and
massive form, almost impossible to disguise, of
Jake's father.

"He be fast asleep," he heard Jake say, evidently
in answer to a question.  "I knocked once, a little
un; then twice, rayther louder; then I tried the
door: 'twas locked.  I didn't hear un snore, but
maybe he sleeps quiet."

"Hee! hee! 'a will sleep quieter in the grave,"
said a voice, which Dick had no difficulty in
recognising as that of Doubledick, the innkeeper,
whose conversation was always partial to death and
the churchyard and similar cheerful subjects.

"Mildmay would fly in a passion if he knew old
Joe were asleep," said a man whose voice Dick could
not identify.

"Ay, and so would riding-officer," added a third.
He referred to the official so denominated, whose
duty it was to work on shore hand in hand with
Mr. Mildmay on the sea, and who was in effect in charge
of the coast for ten or fifteen miles, acting under the
Custom House officer at St. Ives.

"Oh, 't'ud only be a little small passion," said
Doubledick, "'cos the summer bean't over, and not
a man of 'em will look for us to begin afore pilchur
fishin' be past."

"Body o' me, hain't we 'ticed Mildmay away to
stop a run?"

"Nay, sonny, 'twas tidings of a French privateer
that baited him.  'Tis a proper dark night, and if
the wind holds, Zacky will be here a little arter
midnight.  And the manin' o' that is twenty pound in our
pockets, a noble fust lesson to say 'magnify' arter."

Dick sighed inwardly; what a boon twenty pounds
would be to his father's impoverished treasury!
Like all the gentlemen of the county, the Squire was
willing to purchase smuggled goods; it seemed to
Dick that there was not a great distinction between
the purchaser and the smuggler; and yet he knew
that his father would be horrified at the idea of
enriching himself in that way.  From what he had
overheard it was clear that a run, the first of the
season, was to be attempted that night, and since this
did not concern the Squire, he was about to return
home, when he heard the click of a lock, followed by
footsteps from the house, and slipped round the
angle of the building just in time to escape the eyes
of John Trevanion.

The owner of the Dower House joined the
smugglers, and Dick heard his loud and hearty
greeting.

"Well, my friends, is all clear?  No scent for
the hounds, eh?"

"Not so much as would cover a penny-piece,"
cried Doubledick.  "Hee! hee!  Old Joe's abed."

"I'm glad of it.  Mind you, you must not bring
the tubs here if there's any interruption.  It would
never do for the county to know that I'm a
freighter."

"Trust we for that, yer honour; we know you
must keep up yer high place, and 'tis generous of
'ee to lend us yer cellars."

"Well, Doubledick, here's the key.  I shall be
abed, of course; I know nothing about your doings,
and I can trust you to work quietly and not wake
the servants."

"Iss, fay, yer honour," said a man: "ye can
trust Billy Doubledick, to be sure.  He be a very
clever feller: I say it to his face."

"Good night, then.  I wish you well."

Dick heard his cousin return to the house and
lock the door.  So John Trevanion was a freighter:
one who bought contraband goods in a foreign
port, paid the expenses of shipment and carrying,
and received the profits.  This was food for
reflection.  A word to Mr. Mildmay or Mr. Polwhele,
the riding-officer, would lead to John Trevanion's
arrest.  The fate of smugglers caught in the act was
five years' service in a man-of-war, or a long term of
imprisonment; aiders and abettors also were subject
to heavy penalties; and Dick would have liked to
rid the neighbourhood of the man who had caused
his father such distress.  But he could not play the
shabby part of informer, and for the first time in his
life he wished heartily that the smugglers might be
caught, and their connection with Trevanion
discovered; hitherto his sympathies had been entirely
on their side.

Since there was nothing to be gained by remaining
longer at the outhouse, he went quietly away and
walked back towards the Towers.  But he was so
much interested in his strange discovery that he
felt it would be impossible to sleep until he knew
whether the run proved successful.  On reaching
home, therefore, he went first to his mother's room
to bid her good-night, then to the dining-room to
get some supper, and shortly after eleven o'clock
stole out again.  He had never seen a smuggling
run, and the likelihood that this one would be
entirely undisturbed promised a peaceful view,
without any risk of running into danger, of which he
knew that his parents would disapprove.

He had not learnt where the run was to be, but
guessed, if the tubs were to be carried to the cellars
of the Dower House, that the head of Trevanion
Bay would be the chosen spot.  It was the most
convenient place near to the Dower House, except
the little harbour itself, which was not likely to be
selected.  He made his way, therefore, along the
narrow headland known as the Beal, which formed
the southern boundary of the bay.  Near the end
of the headland, overlooking the narrow passage
between it and the reef, by which vessels could enter
the harbour at low tide, was the favourite playground
of his early boyhood.  It was a hollow in the cliff,
screened from observation seaward by a huge boulder
somewhat insecurely poised.  Only a few years had
passed since Sam and he used to play there at
fighting the French.  There they had their toy citadel,
from which they bombarded Boney's squadrons
attempting an invasion.  From it, too, they could
see on to the decks of vessels passing in and out
of the harbour at low tide, and hugging the cliff to
avoid the reef.  They played also at smuggling,
and it is noteworthy that they were always the
successful smugglers, and never the baulked and
discomfited preventive men.  It was a lonely spot,
and they had it quite to themselves except for the
gulls.

When, as they grew older, they no longer took
the same childish delight in playing French and
English, they turned the place into a storehouse for
fishing gear.  In a remote corner of the nook, they
scooped out the earth to form a deep recess, lined
this with wood, and kept there a reserve supply of
hooks, tackle, rope, a spare anchor and sculls, two
fowling-pieces, and other articles, by this means
often saving themselves a journey back to the
Towers.  Lonely as the spot was, they often
quaked with apprehension lest their secret should
be discovered, especially during the pilchard season.
At that time the huer, whose duty it was to keep
watch, and indicate by flourishing a bush, for the
benefit of the fishers below, the direction in which
the shoals of fish were swimming, was accustomed
to take his stand on the headland.  But he naturally
chose the highest point, and had no reason to seek
the lower level of the cave, where he could neither
see nor be seen so well.  The boys were always
careful to avoid the neighbourhood of their
storehouse when the huer was about, and there being
nothing to draw any one else to the spot, the secret
had remained undiscovered.

It was towards this place that Dick proceeded on
leaving the Towers.  But when he arrived there, he
found at once that if the smugglers' cargo was to be
run in the bay it would be impossible to see
anything of it.  The night was particularly dark; only
such moonless nights were chosen by the smugglers
for their operations; and even the grey cliffs were
almost invisible from where he stood.  He determined,
therefore, to return along the headland, and
make his way down the face of the cliff by the path
whereby he had ascended with Sam on the night of
their bass fishing.  There were recesses at the foot,
in one of which he could easily conceal himself and
watch all that went on.  And as there was no time
to lose, if he was to be in hiding before the smugglers
arrived, he walked rapidly, and climbed down the
steep path at a pace that would have been dangerous
to any one who was not well acquainted with it.

He was unaware that a figure was following him.
There was no sound of footsteps to attract his
attention: he did not look back, and if he had done so
he could hardly have seen the form that steadily
kept pace with him at the distance of sixty or seventy
yards.  The second figure descended the path with
the same surefooted ease, paused at the foot till
Dick was out of sight, and then stole after him and
ensconced himself in a hollow of the cliff only about
three yards from that in which Dick had stationed
himself.  These hiding-places were some twenty
yards from the bottom of the path.

Neither of the two silent watchers suspected that,
on the cliff above them, a third figure was approaching
the path by which they had descended, but from
the opposite direction.  Old Penwarden, so far from
being snugly asleep, as Jake Tonkin rashly concluded,
had never been more wide-awake in his life.  The
summoning of Mr. Mildmay to a distance, the
lateness of the pilchard season, and the darkness of
the night, combined to make him suspicious, and he
had resolved to patrol the cliff from St. Cuby's Well
to the Beal, to satisfy himself that the smugglers
were not already at their tricks.  Having smoked
through his pipe at the Well, he returned to his
cottage, took the telescope, the brace of pistols, the
ammunition, the cutlass, and the blue light for
giving an alarm which were his regular equipment,
and began to march slowly and quietly up and down.

About ten minutes after the lads had taken up
their positions, they heard a stone come rattling
down the path twenty yards to the left.  A few
seconds after, they were just able to discern a dark
figure emerge on to the beach.  This was followed
by another, and a third, and soon the whole beach
was alive with dusky shapes.  The tide was ebbing,
but a stiff breeze sent long rollers dashing over the
sand, their roar and rustle smothering the low voices
of the men as they talked fitfully together.

The watchers saw one of the men drive an iron
post firmly into the sand and attach to it the end of
a rope.  The other end was fastened to a similar
post in the earth at the top of the cliff.  By this
means a rail was formed, to give assistance to the
carriers as they climbed up with their burdens.

A little later there came from seaward a faint
creak, scarcely distinguishable among the other
sounds.  The watchers pricked up their ears.  Even
at low tide there was enough water beneath the
cliffs to enable a vessel to run in very close, and the
hidden spectators guessed that a lugger was drawing
in: at present they could not see it.  The shore
men were all low down on the beach.  In a few
minutes the men could be heard splashing in the
water as they waded out to the vessel.  Then the
lugger itself appeared, a dark shape on the surface.

Soon the men could be seen returning in a long
line, each one apparently twice as big as before.
Each bore two tubs, one in front, one behind, slung
over his shoulders by ropes which had been fitted
before they left the lugger.

Several of the men had deposited their burdens
on the beach, and were going back for more, when
there was a noise of scrambling on the path.  Work
ceased instantly.  A figure ran a few yards towards
the sea, and spoke to a large man who appeared to
be directing the operations.  His words were just
audible to the watchers.

"Old Joe be comin' along cliff-top, Feyther."

"But they told me you said 'a was asleep."

"So 'a was, but 'a must ha' waked up.  He be
comin', sure enough."

"You must be a cussed stunpoll, then, to come
slitherin' down cliff like that, makin' a rattle to wake
the dead.  Well, no matter.  We can deal wi' old
Joe, if so be as he's alone."

"Iss, he be alone.  I pulled up the post and
brought the rope down-along."

"You've some sense in yer skull, then.  Now you,
Pendred, and you, Simon Mail, go up cliff and keep
a watch.  Stand yerselves in that narrow part
three-quarters of the way up, and if the old meddler comes,
seize un, and choke un, but don't do un a hurt
unless he shows fight.  We don't want no crowner's quest."

The two men selected to waylay the exciseman set
off to climb the cliff, and the work of running the
cargo was resumed.

Dick was in a quandary.  He had no interest in
doing preventive work, and there were many reasons
why he should refrain from interfering.  But old
Penwarden was a friend of his, and a mettlesome
old fellow, who would certainly not allow himself to
be seized without a struggle.  Moreover, being
armed, as he doubtless was, he would have a
temporary advantage over the smugglers, who,
expecting no opposition, would probably have no
weapons with them but their knives.  But it might
well be that in the struggle the smugglers, driven to
desperation, would make short work of rushing upon
him and flinging him over the cliff; or if the
struggle were prolonged, they could summon help
from below, overpower him, and truss him up.  In
either case the old man would be in considerable
danger, for the smugglers, when their passions were
aroused, would not be over-scrupulous.

These considerations flashed through Dick's mind
in a second.  He could not let Penwarden run into
danger unwarned; yet how was the warning to be
given?  There was but one way.  A few yards to
the right of the spot where he stood it was possible
to scale the cliff.  The ascent was much longer and
more arduous than the regular path, and there was
the risk that he would not be in time.  Unless he
gained the cliff-top before Penwarden had passed,
he would be too late.  There was not a moment to spare.

Dropping down on hands and knees behind a
boulder that intercepted the view seaward, he
crawled as fast as he could towards a slight indentation
of the cliff beyond which he would be invisible
to the smugglers, and where the ascent began.  He
was followed within a few moments by the second
watcher.  Just as he was beginning to climb he
heard a low whisper behind him.

"I be comin' too, Maister Dick."

"You here, Sam?  What do you mean by this?"

"Don't 'ee talk, now.  I'll tell 'ee when we get
to top."

They scrambled up the face of the cliff as actively
as goats, clutching at stunted bushes and tufts of
coarse grass, dodging awkward corners, fearful lest
the stones and loose earth they disturbed should
strike upon the boulders below and reveal their
presence to the smugglers.  Both were active lads
with good wind, and their progress was no doubt
more rapid, foot for foot, than that of the smugglers
on the path a hundred yards to the right, encumbered
as they were with their heavy sea-boots.  But this
advantage in speed was counterbalanced by the
greater length of their course, though this in its turn
was compensated by the fact that, unless Penwarden
had already passed, they would be a hundred yards
nearer to him when they reached the top.

In six minutes from the start, panting with their
exertions, they heaved themselves over the brink of
the cliff and stood erect.  Twenty yards to their
right, Penwarden was in the act of raising his
telescope to spy over the waters of the bay.  With
trembling limbs they ran towards him, Dick giving
him warning of their presence by a low clear whisper.
The old exciseman shut up his telescope with a snap,
and turned.

"'Tis you, Maister Dick!" he said.

"Yes.  Some one saw you.  Two men are waiting
for you on the path.  I can't tell you their
names.  You'll be knocked over if you try to go down."

"That's the way o't, is it?  We'll see about that.
Thank'ee for the warning.  You didn't tell me they
be running a cargo, but I know it.  I'll dash their
tricks."

"But, Joe—"

"Don't stop me," said Penwarden, shaking off
Dick's detaining arm.  "'Tis my duty to stop this
run, Mr. Mildmay being haled off on a wild-goose
chase, and do it I will.  But get 'ee home-along, sir,
you are best out o' this, though if 'ee were a bit
older, dash my bones if I wouldn't call on 'ee to help
in the King's name."

Without more ado, he took from his pocket the
blue light, struck a spark from his tinder-box, and in
a moment the cliff-top for many yards around was
illuminated by the brilliant sputtering flame.  It was
intended to warn the lieutenant of the revenue cutter,
if he were within sight, and to draw from their
cottages in the village the tidesmen, as they were
called, whose duty it was, on the alarm being given,
to hasten to the exciseman's assistance.  These men
were cobblers, tinkers, and other small tradesmen,
for the most part Methodists, who were ready to
brave the hostility of the smugglers for the sake of
good pay and a bounty for every hogshead seized.

Dick was aghast.  Things were turning out even
worse than he expected.  The light would enrage
the smugglers, and they would be in no mood to
handle the old man gently.  Penwarden was already
hurrying towards the path.  It seemed to Dick sheer
madness for one man, and a man no longer young,
to attempt to deal with a score of rough and
determined smugglers.  He was rushing headlong upon
destruction.  All care for what might be the
consequences to himself vanished from Dick's mind; he
could not leave the exciseman to his fate.  But what
could he do to help him, without weapon of any
kind?  He suddenly bethought him of the fowling-pieces
laid up in the little nook on the Beal.

"Come, Sam," he said, and started to run at full
speed to fetch them.  They passed Penwarden like
a flash; there might just be time to return before he
encountered the ambushed men.  The blue light
was now extinguished, and sea and land were covered
with the former darkness.

Much fleeter of foot than Sam, Dick outstripped
him in a few seconds, and ran on alone to the little
cave.  He seized the fowling-pieces, and discovered
that there was no ammunition; nevertheless, he
raced back with them; they might serve to over-awe
the smugglers, or in the last resort be used
as clubs.

He had only just rejoined Sam when they heard
a rough voice call out a command to halt, and
Penwarden's answer.

"Stand aside, in the King's name."

Clearly the dauntless old man had arrived at the
spot where the smugglers were in wait for him.
The boys dashed forward, came to the head of the
path, and ran recklessly down, Dick hoping that
they might still be in time to prevent mischief.  But
before they reached the scene of the scuffle, they
heard the noise of some heavy body crashing down
the cliff, and then the roar of a pistol.  Immediately
afterwards they caught sight of two figures hurrying
down the path.

"They've killed un dead!" muttered Sam.

With his heart in his mouth, Dick ran down the
path, slipping, recovering himself, and running
again.  Sam was close behind.  About half-way
down a body lay huddled on a projecting ledge,
which had broken its fall and prevented it from
crashing to the base of the cliff.  Dick stooped over
it, expecting to see Penwarden shot to the heart.
To his intense relief he heard a groan, and turning
the man over, he was just able to perceive that his
face was blackened.  Joe, then, had escaped, and
was one of the two who had gone down the path
and were now out of sight.

The two boys hurried on.  There was a great
hubbub below them; having been discovered, the
smugglers no longer troubled to preserve silence;
and Dick, hearing their angry shouts and curses,
feared that Penwarden's quixotic action in
attempting to tackle them single-handed would prove his
destruction.  He took the rest of the path in
reckless leaps, and, when he reached the beach, saw that
the old exciseman had posted himself beside a row
of tubs which he had seized in the King's name.

In the confusion Dick's arrival was unobserved.
The smugglers were thronging up the beach with
threatening cries.  Penwarden's pistol flashed, but
next moment a heavy missile, hurled by one of the
men, struck him on the head, and he fell.

"Throw un into the sea," shouted a rough voice.

Half-a-dozen men rushed towards the prostrate
man and began to drag him towards the water.

"Stand!" cried Dick, dashing forward.  "Loose
him, or we'll fire."

.. _`"'STAND!' CRIED DICK, DASHING FORWARD. 'LEAVE HIM, OR WE'LL FIRE'"`:

.. figure:: images/img-094.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "'STAND!' CRIED DICK, DASHING FORWARD. 'LEAVE HIM, OR WE'LL FIRE.'"

   "'STAND!' CRIED DICK, DASHING FORWARD. 'LEAVE HIM, OR WE'LL FIRE.'"

A sudden silence fell upon the scene.  The men
who held Penwarden's arms stood aside; the others
edged away, taken aback by this unexpected
intervention; there had not been time for the tidesmen
to arrive from the village.  Dick and Sam stood
over the exciseman, pointing their useless muskets at
the crowd.  For a moment there was absolute
stillness; then one of the men murmured:

"'Tis young Maister Trevanion."

"Yes," cried Dick, "and I warn you that if any
of you lays a hand on the old man again I will
report you all to Sir Bevil.  I know you, for all
your black faces.  There's Doubledick, and Tonkin,
and——"

"Iss, 'tis I, and I don't care who knows it,"
interrupted Tonkin, pushing forward.  "What
'nation call ha' you got to meddle, cuss you!"

"I don't meddle with your trade; it's nothing to
me; but I won't see an old fellow killed by a pack
of ruffians."

Tonkin cursed again, but some one drew him
back and spoke to him in low tones.  The fact that
the interruption had come from the Squire's son was
more daunting than the lads' muskets, which had no
terror for armed men accustomed to contend with
equal numbers.  But the name of Trevanion, in spite
of the fallen fortunes of the house, was still a moral
power in the country-side, and, further, if any harm
befell the Squire's heir, they could not escape a
heavy retribution.

After a few moments' colloquy, a man came
forward.

"Hark 'ee, sir," he said, and Dick recognised his
voice as Doubledick's, in spite of an attempt to
disguise it.  "We take it hard as you've meddled
wi' honest free-traders as never did 'ee no harm.
As for old Joe, 'twas only a bit of fun—hee! hee!—he
bean't for drownin'.  What I says I says for all,
and that is, we'll let 'ee take un away if you do give
us yer sacred word not to gie our names to Sir Bevil
or Mr. Mildmay,—them as you knows."

"I don't want to play informer," replied Dick.
"I agree to that."

"Not a word to a soul?"

"No.  I've said so."

"That's fair spoke," said the man, turning to
the rest.

A murmur of approval broke from them.  Dick
at once lifted Penwarden, with Sam's help, from the
pool of water in which he was lying.  It was difficult
to keep him on his feet, for he was as yet only
partially conscious.  Without either assistance or
interference from the smugglers they led him slowly
to the foot of the path, and, one on each side of him,
began to carry, rather than walk, him up the cliff.
One of the smugglers dogged them throughout the
toilsome ascent.  When they came to the place
where the man had fallen, after a shrewd thrust from
Penwarden's cutlass, they found that he had
disappeared, having no doubt made his way homeward.

"Thank 'ee for this, Maister Dick," murmured
Penwarden when they paused to rest at the cliff-top.
"I'll have the law of those tidesmen for not comin'
when they was called."

"No doubt they didn't see your light.  And look
here, Joe, I promised not to split on the men, so I
want you to promise too."

"Daze me if I could split if I tried.  I didn't see
one of 'em plain, nor hear their voices, and I got
this crack on the head afore I could tell one from
t'other."

"Do it hurt much, maister?" asked Sam.

"More'n you'd care about, young Sam.  But 'tis
nawthin' at all to the cracks and wounds we got when
we served wi' Lord Admiral Rodney.  Have I telled
'ee what 'a said to me purticler one day on Plymouth
Hoe?"

"Yes, yes," said Dick, quickly.  "The sooner
you are in bed the better."

They took him slowly to his cottage, where
Dick put him to bed, gave him some brandy, and
bathed his wounded head.

"You'll stop with him to-night, Sam," he said.
"Don't leave him until Gammer Oliver comes in
the morning."

"What'll 'ee say to Feyther, Maister Dick?  I'm
afeard he'll be in a terrible rage wi' poor me."

"I'll make that right.  Now, lock the door when
I've gone, and give Mr. Penwarden anything he
wants during the night.  I'll come over in the
morning."

It was nearly two o'clock before Dick got to bed,
and day was breaking before he slept.  Meanwhile
the smugglers finished their work unmolested, and
before morning eighty tubs of good French spirits
lay in the capacious cellars beneath the Dower House.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Breach Widens`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE SEVENTH


.. class:: center medium

   The Breach Widens

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning John Trevanion, fresh and ruddy,
dressed in white breeches and a blue coat with
shining buttons, rode gaily down to the Five
Pilchards and summoned Doubledick to the door.

"Well, you did the business, I see," he said
jovially.  "A small beginning: I wish my cellars
held more."

"Iss, fay, a little small haul, to be sure; little
and good.  Hee! hee!  But, Maister Trevanion,
I've summat plaguey awk'ard to tell 'ee."

"What's that?" said Trevanion, with an uneasy
look.

"Why, drown me if old Joe didn' come upon us,
and, worse than that, when we'd cracked him on the
head, who should come bouncing down-along but
Squire's boy and young Sam Pollex, vowin' and
swearin' they'd shoot us through the gizzard if we
laid a finger on the old man."

"The deuce they did! and you knocked them on
the head, of course?"

The look of uneasiness passed from Trevanion's face.

"Well, no, not 'zackly.  'Twas Squire's son, you
see."

"What of that?  You should have cracked their
numskulls together and sent 'em home howling.
Afraid of two boys!  What did you do, may I ask?"

"Crackin' skulls is all very fine, but we didn'
want a crowner's 'quest on young Squire.  No, no,
we don't want hangman's necklace chokin' the
breath out of us.  We let 'em take old Joe home-along,
arter they'd give their Bible word to be mum
as gravestones."

"Then you were a pack of fools.  Don't you see
the monkeys were spying on you?  'Twas they
brought Joe, without a doubt, though I'd like to
know how they got wind of the business."

"Well, if I didn' think it! ... Here's Zacky
Tonkin.  Maister Trevanion was sayin' as they two
brats spied on us, Zacky."

"Not they, 'a b'lieve," said Tonkin, who had
come up.  "Young Squire said he'd no mind to
meddle wi' the business, but was only a bit tender
over old Joe."

"And you believe that!" said Trevanion, angrily
flicking his riding-whip.  "Make no mistake, the
Squire has turned on you.  I happen to know that
Mildmay has been twice to the Towers of late; the
Squire's as poor as a church mouse, and informer's
pay will be riches to him."

"Squire turn informer!" cried Tonkin.  "I
can't believe it."

"I can, though," said Doubledick.  "When a
man's as low down in the world as Squire, he'll do a
deal o' dirtiness to fill his purse, 'a b'lieve."

"Of course he will," said Trevanion.  "You
don't know the world, Tonkin.  Depend upon it, a
good many golden guineas will find their way to the
Towers before a week's out."

Tonkin was an honest fellow, save in so far as the
King's revenue was concerned, and had that simplicity
of soul which is incredulous of trickery in others.
He was not proof against the cunning suggestions of
Trevanion.  Naturally short-tempered and violent,
he smote the flank of Trevanion's horse a blow that
set it prancing, and cried with a savage oath:—

"Then I'll make 'em pay for 't, as sure as my
name be Zack Tonkin.  I will so."

"Hee! hee!  That 'a will," said Doubledick,
rubbing his hands.  "They golden guineas 'll be a
bad egg, to be sure."

Trevanion smiled.  He had laid the train; he
could trust his minions to fire it.

"Well, we'll speak no more of that," he said.
"I'm riding to Truro: can you tell what for?"

"Not for more furnichy?" said Tonkin.

"Goin' a-courtin', hee! hee!" smirked Doubledick.

"No, no; I shan't trouble the parson yet awhile.
I'm going to open the mines again, my men."

"Then I'm sorry for 'ee," said Tonkin bluntly.
"Mines were worked out long ago."

"Maybe, maybe not.  I'm going to try.  I shall
begin in quite a small way.  I shan't fling my money
into the earth as my cousin did.  But I mean to try
my luck, and within a week or two I shall have a
few men at work."

"'Twill be good for the parish," said Doubledick.
"The miners are drouthy souls, and have a proper
taste for good sperits.  Ay, sure, 'twill do us all
good."

"You won't give up the trade, sir?" enquired
Tonkin.

"Not I.  The Polkerran men will do more than
ever before.  A fig for your Mildmays and
Polwheles—Polwhele is still riding-officer, isn't he?  My
wits against them any day.  We'll double our trade
with Roscoff this winter."

"If Delarousse bean't nabbed," said Tonkin.
"His game of privateerin' will souse him in hot
water one o' these days."

"Oh! we can do without Delarousse.  There's a
man in Roscoff, no friend of his, who will deal with
us better than he."

"It do maze me, Maister Trevanion," said Doubledick,
"that arter bein' away all these years ye know
so much about the trade."

"I keep my eyes open, that's all," replied
Trevanion, with a laugh.  "Well, I must be off.
You can tell the neighbours about the mines.  I'm
glad to do something for the old village."

He rode away, giving smiling greetings to the
people, men and women, whom he passed on the
road.

"A fine feller!" said Doubledick, enthusiastically.
"'Twill be heyday in village, Zacky; stirring life,
and not so much of a tomb as 'tis since Squire
became a pauper."

"But I'm sorry he do want us to break with
Delarousse.  He be a good trader, for a Frenchman.
Howsomever, if there be a better, all the better for
we, to be sure."

The men parted, to retail to their friends and
neighbours the pleasing news of the great things
John Trevanion was about to do for the village.

Roscoff, the place mentioned in the course of
their conversation, was a little port in Brittany which
had become the chief seat of the contraband trade
with the south-west of England since a restrictive
Act of Parliament had put a stop to it in the Channel
Islands.  The French Government had made it a
free port to smugglers, and in a few years it had
grown from a tiny fishing village to a thriving town.
There were three classes of people engaged in the
contraband trade.  The freighters consigned or
received the goods, and paid the expenses of their
shipment.  The boatmen conveyed them from
port to port, always on moonless nights, and usually
when a strong wind was blowing.  The tub-carriers
bore them to their destination.  The boatmen
received a fixed sum for each trip, the tub-carriers
for each cargo run, and frequently in addition a
portion of the goods, or a small share in the
proceeds.

Until John Trevanion reappeared in Polkerran,
Isaac Tonkin had been the principal freighter of the
village, and was the owner and master of the lugger
which plied between it and Roscoff.  His dealings
were chiefly with a certain Jean Delarousse, a
ship-owner of Roscoff, who was notorious also as a daring
seaman, and in his privateer vessel preyed on English
shipping in the Channel between Poole and the
Lizard.  Delarousse had never come to Polkerran,
but he was well known to Tonkin and the crew of
his lugger, the Isaac and Jacob.  Tonkin having
little capital, the cargoes run at Polkerran were
usually small, and were disposed of solely among
the innkeepers, farmers, and gentry of the
neighbourhood.  Now that Trevanion had come home, the
Polkerran folk expected great developments in
the trade, and looked forward to an exciting and
profitable winter.  Apart from the monetary gain,
the risks of smuggling exercised a fascination upon
those engaged in it, providing the only excitement in
their otherwise dull and monotonous lives.  The
fraud on the revenue weighed very lightly on their
consciences.  In their view they were entitled to the
full value of the goods for which they had honestly
paid, and the Government officials were thieves and
tyrants.  To best the Customs and Excise was both
a business and a sport.

It was not long before the consequences of Dick's
intervention on behalf of Joe Penwarden made
themselves felt.  Hitherto the smugglers had recognised
the Trevanions of the Towers as rather for them
than against them, but now, actuated by John
Trevanion's malicious suggestion, they looked on
them in a different light.  For the first time a
Trevanion had ranged himself on the side of the
representatives of the law, and Tonkin, resenting
what he regarded as defection, soon began to show
that in threatening vengeance he meant to be as good
as his word.

One morning Dick, going down with Sam to
inspect the night lines he had set in the waters of
Trevanion Bay, discovered with surprise and
annoyance that they had been cut.  A day or two
afterwards they found their boat, which they had
drawn up as usual above high-water mark, bumping
among the rocks half a mile up the coast.  They did
not report these occurrences, hoping that they were
nothing but a mark of temporary ill-feeling and would
soon cease.  But when for the third time their lines
were tampered with, Dick became seriously concerned.
The fish they caught were a very important part of
the provisions for the household.  What was not
required at once was salted and dried for
consumption when fishing was over for the season.  Without
these constant supplies they would have to draw
more largely on their pigs and poultry, which they
were accustomed to sell.  Dick was unwilling to
impart his troubles to any one, and for several nights
he and Sam kept watch, hoping that if the culprits
were caught in the act, the fear of exposure would
put a stop to their mischief.  On three nights
nothing happened: and yet, on the first night when
they left the lines unguarded, the same fate befell
them.

"This is more than I can bear," cried Dick, in the
morning.  "I shall tell Petherick."

Petherick was the village constable, who filled also
the offices of sexton, bell-ringer, and beadle in the
parish church.

"Bless 'ee, you'll waste yer breath," said Sam.
"Old Petherick be a crony o' Tonkin, and wouldn'
lift a finger against him, without it were murder or
arson: and then he'd have to get the sojers to help
him.  Why, 'tis said he've let 'em keep the tubs in
church-tower sometimes when the preventives have
been smellin' too close."

"Well, we must put a stop to it somehow.  I'll
tell Joe, and see what he has to say."

Later in the day he went into the village to buy
some new fishing tackle at a general-shop, where the
folk could buy tea, sugar, cheese, needles, thread,
letter-paper, bootlaces—in short, every small article
they needed.  On his return, he heard a hubbub
proceeding from the village green, where wrestling-bouts,
games of quoits, dog-fights, and other sports
took place.  In the midst was a duck-pond.  Bending
his steps thither to see what was going on, he
beheld Sam with his back against a tree, sturdily
defending himself with fists and feet against a crowd
of the village lads, among whom the hulking form
of Jake Tonkin was conspicuous.

"Heave un in duck-pond," he heard Jake cry.

"You'd better!" he shouted, rushing forward to
assist his companion.

The crowd fell back as he forced his way through
it, bowling one fellow over like a ninepin, and
driving another out of his path with a shove that
nearly sent him into the pond.  It is probable that
his energy, and the prestige attached to him as the
Squire's son, would have put an end to the affair;
but it chanced that John Trevanion rode by at this
moment, and reining up his horse, contrived in
some subtle manner to indicate that his sympathy
was with the larger party.  Only this could explain
the sudden change in their attitude.  They closed
round Dick and Sam with derisive yells.

"Gie un both a duckin'," shouted one, and they
made a sudden concerted rush, trying to seize the
two boys.

Dick, never having been to school, had never had
occasion or opportunity to learn the noble art; but
his muscles were in good condition, and the obvious
necessity was to make full use of them.  Standing
beside Sam against the tree, he hit out against any
head, trunk, or shoulder that came within reach,
Sam making good play as before with feet as well as
arms.  One young fisher retired with a crimson
nose, another with a bump over one eye, a third
shouting that his leg was broken.  All the time
John Trevanion sat his horse, smiling, and flinging
out now and then an encouraging word, which might
have been intended for either side, but was
appropriated by Tonkin's crew.

Courage and the best will in the world cannot
prevail over a triple excess of numbers.  The fisher-lads
were still six when their wounded comrades had
retired to the rear.  Led by Jake Tonkin they
hurled themselves upon the two defenders.  For a
few minutes there was a brisk scrimmage; many
good blows were given and exchanged; then Dick
and Sam fell, to be immediately pounced on by the
victors, who caught them by legs and arms and
began to drag them down to the pond.

They were within a yard of the brink when a
loud voice thundered a command to halt, and a
riding-whip cracked and curled its thong round the
legs and backs of the aggressors.  With howls of
pain they released their victims and fled across the
green.  Rising, bruised and muddy, from the ground,
the two boys saw Mr. Polwhele, the riding-officer,
close by on horseback, his face flushed and stern-set
with anger.

"You look on and do nothing!" he said indignantly
to John Trevanion.

"My dear sir, why should I interfere?  Boys
must fight, let them fight it out."

"Three to one—is that your idea of fair play?"

Trevanion shrugged.

"Hadn't you better reserve your whip for
stimulating your tidesmen, Mr. Polwhele?  They
need a little spiriting, if what I hear is true."

And with that as a parting shot Trevanion rode away.

"What was the origin of this?" asked Mr. Polwhele.
"I'm sorry to see it, Master Trevanion."

"'Twas like this, sir," said Sam, rubbing his head
and legs alternately.  "I comed upon they chaps,
and Jake Tonkin says to me, 'Catched any fish
lately, young Sam?'  Says I, ''Tis easier to cut
lines, to be sure,' says I, and then they set on me,
and they'd ha' melled and mashed me if Maister
Dick hadn't come up."

"Have they been cutting your lines, then?"

Dick saw no help for it but to acquaint the
riding-officer with the petty persecution he had lately
suffered, and the cause of it, which hitherto
Mr. Polwhele had not known.

"'Tis rascally, 'pon my soul it is," said the
officer, "and I'm sorry Penwarden has brought it
on ye.  Not but 'twas your own doing, Master
Dick; you'd better have kept out of it, though I
own 'twas a good deed to old Joe.  I'm on my
way to see Sir Bevil, and I'll tell him as a
magistrate, and he'll engage to commit any ruffian that
molests ye."

"Not on my account, if you please, Mr. Polwhele,"
said Dick earnestly.  "There's bad blood between
the Towers and the village as it is, and 'twill be ten
times worse if Sir Bevil comes into it."

"Maybe you're in the right.  Well, I'll see you
safe home, and if I may advise ye, keep out of the
way o' the village folk.  You're not friends with
Mr. Trevanion seemingly.  Is he backing the
smugglers, d'ye know?"

"I can't say anything about that.  My father has
nothing to do with him."

"Well, well, these family quarrels are common
enough.  Come along beside me."

Nothing could have been more unfortunate than
the intervention of the riding-officer.  Purely
accidental as it was, the villagers regarded it as another
proof of the new alliance between the Towers and
the enemy.  John Trevanion did not fail to
describe to the elder Tonkin, the next time he met
him, how savagely Mr. Polwhele had laid his whip
upon Jake, and the irate smuggler swore that if he
encountered the riding-officer he would make him
pay for it.

That evening Dick consulted Joe Penwarden on
the situation, as he had intended.  Joe was much
distressed to think that he was the cause of the
bitterness with which the village folk now regarded
the family at the Towers.

"I don't know what you can do," said he.  "But
let things bide; maybe they'll see by long and late
they've misread 'ee."

"But we can't have our fishing spoilt time after
time, Joe."

"'Tis a pretty stoor, be dazed to it!" said Joe,
angrily.  "And all for a wambling old carcase like
me!  Ah!  I warn't allus like as I be now.  When
Lord Admiral Rodney spoke to me on Plymouth
Hoe I was as limber a young feller as you'd see in
Devon or Cornwall.  He was goin' along with two
handsome females——but there, I think I've telled
'ee.  What I say is, why did Maister John come
home, cuss him?  There was none o' this afore."

"I don't think that's fair, Joe.  They'd have run
a cargo all the same, if he were at the ends of the
earth; and I couldn't have done differently."

"Ye may say so, but I hold to it, whatever ye say.
He's ill-wished 'ee, that's the truth, and a pity it
is he ever showed his face here."

Two evenings later, when Dick was struggling
with a piece of Latin prose for Mr. Carlyon, there
was a knock at the outer door, and Reuben admitted
Penwarden, with Jake Tonkin firmly in his clutch.

"Axe Squire if I can have speech with him,
Reuby," he said.

Mr. Trevanion came out into the hall.

"Well, what's this, Joe?" he asked.

"I catched this young reptile a-meddlin' wi'
Maister Dick's lines, Squire," said Penwarden, "so
I brought him up to be dealt with according to law."

"Meddling with his lines, indeed!" cried the
Squire in surprise.  "Why should he do that?
What have you to say for yourself, rascal?"

Jake had nothing to say for himself, but stood
with a sullen glower upon his face.

"'Tis not the first time either, Squire, and I be
mazed as you didn' know it," Penwarden continued.

"I knew nothing about it.  Dick," he called into
the room, "come here."

Dick obeyed reluctantly.

"Penwarden tells me," said his father, "that your
lines have been tampered with.  Is that true?"

"Yes, sir."

"How often?"

"Three or four times within a week or so."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"I didn't want to bother you, sir."

"But this is new; it shows a hostile spirit——.
Well, I'll say no more now.  As for you, you
young scoundrel, I'm not a justice, or I'd commit
you.  You shall take your choice; a sound flogging,
or haled before Sir Bevil: that will mean three
months in Truro jail.  Which is it to be?"

"I don't want to see Sir Bevil," said Jake,
sullenly.

"Strip off your coat, then.  Reuben, bring my whip."

Dick went away: he could not remain to see the
lad thrashed.

"Now, Reuben, half a dozen lashes," said the
Squire when his man returned.  "No; I'll do it
myself.  Stoop!"

Dick pressed his fingers into his ears when at the
third or fourth stroke Jake began to howl.  The
Squire gave him full measure; then bade him
begone, and take care not to offend again, declaring
that he should not get off so easily next time.

"Now, Dick," he said, returning to the room,
"what is the meaning of all this?"

Thereupon Dick made a clean breast of it, telling
all that had happened since the rescue of Penwarden.
The Squire's face clouded as he listened to the
story.

"John Trevanion is at the bottom of this," he
cried, thumping the table.  "They would never
believe I was against them unless their minds had
been poisoned.  I will see Tonkin to-morrow and
get at the truth."  Then, with one of the swift
changes of mood characteristic of him, he added:
"No, I won't do it.  I won't gratify that cur; he
shall never think I care a snap for him.  Tell me
if anything of the kind happens again, and I will
myself go over to see Sir Bevil.  On my life, the
toad shall smart if he is proved to be stirring folk
against me."

Every succeeding incident in this series did but
confirm the village folk in their conviction that the
Squire was now their declared enemy, and in staunch
alliance with the revenue officers.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Light on the Moor`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE EIGHTH


.. class:: center medium

   A Light on the Moor

.. vspace:: 2

Next day everybody in Polkerran knew of Jake
Tonkin's thrashing.  It was discussed by the men in
tap-rooms, on the jetty, in barns and piggeries, in
mills and cobblers' work-rooms.  Fishwives chattered
about it on their doorsteps and at their windows.
Boys meeting their playmates asked if they had heard
that Jake Tonkin had been walloped by Squire, and
Jake, as the victim of two assaults of this nature in
succession, was looked upon as something of a hero.
Public opinion was dead against the Squire, and was
perhaps only the stronger because it was in the
wrong.

It was clear that John Trevanion intended to
make himself as unpleasant as possible to his relative.
In the afternoon a number of men were seen mounting
the steep road from the village to the cliff,
drawing trolleys laden with short narrow planks of
wood.  On reaching the green level they proceeded
to erect fences on the ground that had formerly been
the Squire's, and was now John Trevanion's.  By the
end of the next day a large portion of the land was
enclosed, the effect of these operations being that the
inmates of the Towers were cramped in their movements
out of doors, being restricted to the high road
and the various rights of way, which even the landlord
could not close against them.

Sam Pollex hoped that the Squire would retaliate.
The Beal, from which the huer was accustomed to
show his signals to the pilchard fishers, was still
Mr. Trevanion's property, and he could, if he chose, fence
it round in the same way.  But there was nothing
petty in the Squire's nature.  He was not the man
to take a mean revenge on his neighbours, so that
when a fisher reported one evening that he had seen
sharks and grampuses some distance out at sea, a sure
sign that the pilchards were coming, the villagers
went to bed without any fear that access would be
forbidden to the usual haunt.

Just before dawn next morning, Nathan Pendry,
father of John Trevanion's portmanteau carrier, the
most experienced fisher in the village, took his stand
at the extremity of the Beal, carrying his bush.
Seaward, the sky was gloomy; in the east a pale orange
and pink glow on the horizon announced the rising
sun.  The air was very still, only the slow ripples
washing the sand at the foot of the cliff breaking the
silence.  In the fairway lay three boats, the largest
of them a smack of eight tons burden, manned by
six oarsmen, together with Tonkin and a fisher
nearly as large as he.  These men and the occupants
of the other boats sat without speaking, their eyes
fixed on the huer above.  He stood motionless,
gazing intently on the surface of the sea.  Beyond
the promontory the village was as yet asleep; one
man stood solitary at the end of the jetty.

Suddenly the huer bent forward, in an attitude of
intense expectancy.  A few minutes passed; then
lifting himself he waved his bush aloft.  His
experienced eyes had detected a shadow in the water,
moving across the bay in a direction parallel with the
shore.  Instantly the men in the first boat fell to
their oars, and Tonkin, standing up in the stern,
and making a trumpet of his hands, shouted,
"Havar! havar!" towards the single figure on the
jetty.  This man repeated the cry; it was taken up
in the village; and soon from every street and lane
a crowd of men, women, and children poured up
towards the cliffs, dressing themselves as they ran,
and shouting, "Havar! havar!  Yo-hoy, hoy, hoy!"

Meanwhile the rowers were tugging at their oars
with all their might, Ike Pendry, who was rowing
bow, having his eyes fixed on his father, and
directing the steersman in accordance with the movements
of the bush.  The ground behind the huer was now
thronged with spectators, no longer shouting, but
watching Pendry and the boatmen in tense silence.
All at once the huer dropped his bush; the rowers
shipped oars; and Tonkin and his mate grasped a
long net, which had lain folded ready to their hands,
and with a few deft movements shot it overboard.

"Yo-hoy, yo-hoy!" broke from every throat.
Then the crowd relapsed into silence, watching the
further proceedings in the bay.

The "seine net," as it was called, was a quarter of
a mile long and sixteen fathoms broad at the middle.
It was fastened on each side to two stout double
ropes, and at each corner to four strong warps about
fifty fathoms long.  Corks were fixed to the upper
edge, and leaden weights to the lower.  When it
was "shot," the corks buoyed up one end to the
surface of the water, the leads sank the other
perpendicularly to the bottom.  The boat
meanwhile was rowed round the shoal, following the
directions of the huer, until, the two extremities
being made fast, the fish were imprisoned in an
oblong barrier of network.  As Tonkin straightened
his back after completing his part of the work,
another shout rent the air, and the huer, his task
also accomplished, broke through the dignified calm
which had hitherto distinguished him, and waved his
cap triumphantly.

Now came the turn of the "tuck-boat," one of
those that had remained as yet in the fairway.  It
was rowed within the area enclosed by the seine,
and laid close to the seine-boat, to the bows of which
one end of a smaller net, called the "tuck," was
fastened by a rope.  The boat then slowly made
the inner circuit of the seine, the tuck being paid
out and deftly hooked at intervals to the larger net.
Meanwhile the men in the third boat beat the water
with their oars, so as to scare the fish into the middle
of the enclosure.

Now came the most exciting moment of the day.
The cliff-top all round the bay was dark with
spectators.  Small boys, eager to get in front, dodged
and shoved among the legs and skirts of their
elders.  The village blacksmith was there; cobblers
with bent backs and leather aprons; tinkers, tailors,
wheelwrights, carpenters, ploughmen, dairymaids,
old men with sticks and crutches, old women who
could scarcely totter, mothers with babies in their
arms: all were agog with excitement to see the final
act.  Sam Pollex was there, and when he caught
sight of the parlourmaid of the Dower House he
sidled up to her elbow, listened with delight to her
exclamations of "My gracious!" "Look 'ee see,
now!" "Lawk-a-massy me!" and by-and-by
ventured to instruct her ignorance of the movements
passing below.

With the shouts of the boys were now mingled the
deeper tones of the seiners as, ranged in a row in
their boat, they began to haul on the tuck, calling
"Yo, heave ho!" in time with their rhythmic
movements.  "Pull away, boys!" shouts the huer;
"Yo-hoy!" scream the boys.  "Up she comes!
Look at 'em!  Look at 'em!"  The water eddies
like a mill-race; in the midst is seen a heaving mass
of gleaming scales; and from round the point come
boats of all sizes, which range themselves in a circle
about the shoal.  Men lean over the sides, dip their
baskets, lift them full of shining fish, empty them
into the boats, and dip them again for more.  Soon
they stand ankle deep in pilchards, and when the
boats sink to the gunwales, they are rowed away to
the jetty, where men are waiting with shovels and
barrows, ready to carry the fish to the salting-house.

Dick Trevanion was among the spectators.  He
never missed the first haul of the season.  But to-day
he was acutely conscious of a change.  Last year the
villagers had greeted him with smiles and cheery
words; to-day they lowered their eyes, passed him
in silence, and edged away from him as he moved
from place to place.  He could not but feel bitterly
his isolation.  Why did they so misjudge him?  He
had not changed: he knew well that, in any ordinary
contest between the smugglers and the revenue
officers, his sympathy would have been with the
former; friendly as he was with Mr. Mildmay, he
would enjoy nothing better than that gentleman's
discomfiture, if it were due to fair means and the
villagers' wits.  Yet, because he had intervened to
prevent harm to an old man, he was now regarded
by the villagers as their enemy, one who would
descend to play the mean part of spy and informer.

With gloomy face he turned away and walked
back along the promontory.  At the end he met
Mr. Carlyon, who had just ridden up on his cob.
The parson's ruddy face was suffused with cheerfulness;
he knew by the jubilant shouts of the crowd
that the catch was a good one, and rejoiced that his
parishioners were winning from the deep their
means of subsistence for the winter.  He marked
Dick's clouded face, and, guessing the occasion of
it, he tried to cheer him.

"Come, Dick," he said genially, "cheer up, my
lad; this haul will put the folk in a good temper,
and they will forget their grudge against you."

"I hope they will, sir," replied Dick, "but there's
one man who'll try to keep them in mind of it."

"You mean your cousin?"

"Yes."

"But surely he'll not be such a cur.  He's a
scoundrel—there now, what am I saying?  I'll
tackle him, my boy.  Why, bless my soul, he was
in church on Sunday, and my text was 'Love your
neighbour as yourself.'  I'll ride there now, and
get him to give me some breakfast—though I detest
the fellow," he added in one of his unconscious asides.

"He is away from home, I believe," said Dick.

"Well, then, I'll put it off till another day, but
tackle him I will.  I've a bit of news, Dick.  The
carrier brought me some books last night; that's not
the news, though.  No.  You have heard, maybe, of
a Frenchman named Delarousse?"

He looked slyly at Dick; everyone in Polkerran
knew the name of the Frenchman with whom the
smugglers had such close dealings.

"As a natural enemy of our country I don't pity
him," pursued the parson, "but as a—h'm—an
honest free-trader I own I feel for him.  His privateer
was badly knocked about in the Channel by a revenue
cruiser a week or two ago, and while she was being
repaired, it appears that he tried to run a cargo at
Polperro.  As ill-luck would have it—dear me!  I
wonder if I ought to have said that," he added under
his breath—"he ran into the arms of the revenue
people; they seized his lugger and carried him to
Plymouth, where he'll cool his heels for a time
until they put him among the other French prisoners
on Dartmoor."

"Do they know it in the village yet, sir?"

"Probably not; the carrier was going straight on
to Newquay; he had nothing for us except my
books.  But you may be sure the folk will soon
know all about it.  The carrier had a glass of brandy
with Petherick, and Petherick, as you know, is the
biggest gossip in the parish.  His brandy is better
than mine, the dog!  I must ask him where he
gets it."

Dick could not help smiling at the parson's
unconscious self-revelation.

"That's right; you're feeling better, I see," said
Mr. Carlyon cheerily.  "Now I'll go on and bespeak
my basket.  Pilchards of the first catch are the
daintiest dish I know.  'Tis a holiday to-day, but I
shall see you to-morrow.  Good-bye."

He rode on.  Dick turned to watch him, and saw
Sam Pollex walking beside the maid-servant of the
Dower House.  When Sam observed his young
master he left the girl and came sheepishly towards
him.

"I've been tellin' to she the hows and whys of
it, Maister Dick," said he.

"Indeed."

"Iss, I have.  Bein' a furriner, she be 'mazin
simple for such a well-growed female.  She axed me
why I never brought no more eggs."

"And what did you say?"

"Well, not likin' to hurt her feelings, I telled her
our hens be uncommon idle lately, and she said she
knows they do have fits that way sometimes.
Maister John's gone to Lunnon, to buy things for
his mine."

"I wish he'd stay there."

"Her name be Susan."

"Quite a common name."

"She's as nice a female as ever I've seed."

The pilchard fishing was for several days so
engrossing an occupation that the villagers had no
time for fostering their grievance against the Towers.
Dick and Sam, who had formerly been in the thick
of it, sometimes as spectators merely, occasionally as
participators, kept away, and spent the greater part of
their time in fishing quietly some few miles up the
coast.  One day Dick reverted to the project of
hunting seals, which he had temporarily abandoned, partly
through the diversion afforded by the discovery of
the well, partly because he did not care to kill the
parent seals while their offspring were so young.
Now, however, the prospect of sport, and the
practical wish to obtain a sealskin for his mother, made
him resolve to try his luck in the cave, and he
laid his plans in consultation with the ever-ready
Sam.

He guessed that the seals left the cave at low
tide to find food in the deep, and returned when the
sea flowed in.  Since the cave was at such times
inaccessible from the sea, he decided that it must be
approached from the well, of which neither he nor
Sam had now any remaining dread.  One evening
they sallied towards it, carrying a well-made
rope-ladder, a musket apiece, a large hammer, and several
torches, which would give more light than the ancient
candle-lantern they had formerly carried.  To one
end of the rope-ladder they had attached a series of
stout meat-hooks borrowed from old Reuben: they
could more confidently trust their safety to a number
of teeth gripping the rock than to the single fluke of
their small boat anchor.  They had timed their start
so that they would reach the cave just as the tide
turned.

It was a dull, murky evening, with a touch of
autumn rawness in the air.  Twilight had not quite
merged into darkness when they arrived at the
ruined chapel at the well-head.  They looked
warily around to make sure that their presence was
not observed, then prepared to descend.

"'Tis rayther fearsome," murmured Sam, as he
looked into the black shaft.  Now that he was on the
spot, the tradition of ghostliness in which he had been
brought up revived something of his former fears.

"Nonsense," said Dick, "we have laid the ghost
for ever, Sam.  I will go down first.  Don't follow
until I come to the door.  I will whistle for you.
When you hear me, fling down the ladder and the
hammer.  At a second whistle, come yourself."

Sticking a lighted candle-end into his hatband,
and slinging the musket over his shoulder, he
stepped backward into the well, and began the
descent.  He found the successive staples entirely
by the sense of touch, the candle throwing a deep
shadow below him.  At first he felt a little nervous,
but gathered confidence after a few steps, and made
the latter part of the descent very quickly.

Sam, waiting above, heard a whistle, curiously
prolonged by its reverberations from the walls.  He
threw down the hammer, and gave an involuntary
start when he heard it thud upon the bottom.  The
ladder followed, and the unkindled torches; then,
without lighting a candle for his own hat, he stepped
over the brink, muttering to himself:

"S'pose I fall!  But I won't.  S'pose I do though.
But Maister Dick didn't.  S'pose *I* do.  Well, if 'tis
to be, 'tis, so I med as well go cheerful."

In reality he descended more quickly than Dick
had done.  They gathered up their burdens, and
made their way by the light of Dick's candle along
the passage until they came to the ledge overlooking
the cave.

Here they stopped and peered over.  The tide
was rather lower than they had expected.  Their
eyes ranged the cave for a time without discovering
any sign of the seals.  Then Dick lit a torch, and
holding it over the dark space beneath, he suddenly
saw two orbs of light, like the eyes of a monstrous
cat, in a far corner to the right of him.  Moving
along the ledge in that direction, he descried two
seals, greyish in colour, and much larger than he
had supposed them to be, lying on a rock, with the
two young ones between them.

"We will only kill one, Sam," he whispered,
"and I hope 'twill be the father."

The seals were apparently fascinated by the glare
of the torch, for they made no movement, their eight
eyes glowing like balls of fire.  In order to obtain
more light upon his task, Dick kindled two more
torches, and stuck all three into crevices of rock in
such a way that they illuminated the whole corner of
the cave where the seals lay.  But now the animals
had caught sight of him, and as if instinctively
realising that the intruder was an enemy, they
scrambled with clumsy movements off the rocks
into the water.

"They be goin' out to sea, scrounch 'em!"
whispered Sam, whose attitude to all prospective
victims was an indignant surprise that they did not
wait meekly for their doom.

But the seals, after swimming a yard or two, took
up their position behind a larger boulder, above
which the tops of their sleek, massive heads could
just be seen.

"We shall have to go down to them, Sam," said Dick.

"They be great big creatures," said Sam dubiously.
"Wi' those terrible big flappers they could smite us
flat as flounders."

"You had better take the hammer in case I miss
and they attack us.  We must at any rate prevent
one of them from getting away."

They retreated to the further end of the ledge, to
which the light of their torches scarcely reached, and
carefully hooked the ladder to the jagged rock.
Then in perfect silence they descended.  The water
only came to their knees.  Wading through it with
scarcely more noise than an otter might have made,
they drew gradually nearer to the rock behind which
the seals had sheltered.  Here they found themselves
baulked.  The rock was close to the wall, and
it was impossible to get a shot at the animals without
circumventing it, which appeared to Dick a
dangerous movement.  The surprising quickness with
which the seals had shuffled off their former perch
showed that, if a shot failed, they might fling their
heavy bodies upon the assailants before they could
escape.  He was considering what to do, when a
movement among the seals forced him to act on the
instant.  The largest of the creatures heaved itself
to the top of the rock, and lay there as if on the
watch for the enemy, presenting the side of its head
to Dick.  He raised his musket, a firelock of ancient
type, and fired.  The reverberations in the hollow
vault were broken in upon by a hoarse roar, and
through the cloud of smoke the seal slid over the
rock into the water, and came swimming towards the
two boys.  Dick seized Sam's musket, preparing to
fire again; his first shot had only enraged the
animal.  But before he could raise the weapon, the
seal threw itself out of the water, and he had just
time to spring aside and evade its onset.  As it
passed, its flipper struck the musket from his grasp,
and it fell with a splash into the water.

Sam, for all his fear of ghosts, was brave enough
before a real enemy.  He was standing a yard or
two in Dick's rear.  As the seal plunged heavily
into the sea, Sam brought the hammer down with
all his force upon the creature's head.  There was
one tremendous convulsion of the water, then the
seal's movements ceased and it sank to the bottom.

.. _`"AS THE SEAL PLUNGED INTO THE SEA, SAM BROUGHT HIS HAMMER DOWN"`:

.. figure:: images/img-123.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "AS THE SEAL PLUNGED INTO THE SEA, SAM BROUGHT HIS HAMMER DOWN."

   "AS THE SEAL PLUNGED INTO THE SEA, SAM BROUGHT HIS HAMMER DOWN."

Meanwhile, the other animals, scared by the noise,
had flung themselves into the water, and were
swimming towards the mouth of the tunnel.

"Well done, young Sam!" said Dick.  "You
did that famously."

"So I did, to be sure," replied Sam, "but I
couldn' help it.  You shot un, Maister Dick; see
his blood."

There was a red tinge upon the water.

"How are we to get him up?" said Dick.  "He's
a monstrous big fellow."

"We'll wait till tide is down and skin him here.
Be his body good to eat?"

"That I don't know; we can try.  But the skin
is the valuable part of him, and having that we may
leave the rest."

In two hours the receding tide had left the dead
seal on the sand.  The boys took out their knives,
and, expert in such work, in another half-hour had
removed the skin.  Their torches were by this time
burning low, so they clambered up to the ledge, and
carried their implements and booty as quickly as
possible through the adit to the foot of the well, and
then up to the surface.

Vastly pleased with the success of their expedition
they set off towards home.  The night was very
dark, and a thin rain was falling, which increased as
they proceeded, until it became a steady downpour.
They were tired; their burdens, light enough when
they started from home, now seemed to be pounds
heavier; the rain beat full in their faces, finding out
every crevice between their clothes and their skin;
and the ground was rough, covered here with
tussocks of grass that squelched under their tread,
there with fragments of mining gear which threatened
to trip them up.  They trudged on in silence, feeling
the loneliness and the inclemency of the weather
the more keenly because it ensued upon the high
excitement of their adventure.

As they struck into the path leading by Penwarden's
cottage, Sam suddenly declared that he saw
a flicker of light to their left, some distance across
the moor.

"I can't see it," said Dick, scarcely looking in the
direction indicated, "and it doesn't matter to us.
I'm tired; this skin is heavy; I want to get home."

"'Tis moving," said Sam a moment later.
"Maybe 'tis Maister John comin' back from Lunnon."

"He wouldn't come that way.  I see it now; 'tis
some belated traveller, no doubt."

"But the light bean't on the road; 'tis too far away."

"Never mind about the light," Dick replied,
testily.  "Come along."

They soon came to one of John Trevanion's new
fences, which compelled them to leave the path and
seek the high road.  In his moody frame of mind
Dick resented this bitterly.  They now perceived
that the light, spread starwise by the rain, was much
nearer to them, and presently heard the creaking of
wheels and the dull thud of horses' hoofs on the
turf.  A minute after they had struck the road a
closed travelling carriage, drawn by two horses,
turned into it from a byway, scarcely more than a
bridle path.  On the right of the driver there was a
single lamp.  Catching sight of the two figures on
the road, bending forward under their loads, the
driver hailed them and pulled up his horses beside
them.

"Hi! can 'ee tell me if this be the right road for
Polkerran?" he asked.

"Iss, fay, right for'ard," answered Sam.

"And where be the Five Pilchards?"

"Down-along through village.  Better mind the
hill, if you be a furriner, 'cos 'tis 'nation steep and
twisty."

"So be they all, od rake it."

Here another voice interposed, and a head showed
itself dimly at the carriage window.

"Vill you—ah! how say it!—vill you embark on
ze—ze coach, and, if you please, show ze road?"

"Drat it all, why will 'ee talk?" cried the driver.
"Put yer head inside, for gospel sake.  Come up
beside me, friends, if you'll do a kindness, and say
the word when I do come to the hill.  I don't want
to break hosses' knees nor my own neck."

The boys, glad enough to get a lift, mounted
beside the driver, with a tingling curiosity about the
passenger inside who spoke in so strange an accent.
It was not far to the Towers, and when they came
to it Dick asked the driver to stop, and bade Sam get
down and carry the sealskin and his share of the
other burdens to the house.

"You bean't a fisher?" said the driver to Dick as
Sam was descending.  There was a note of anxiety
in his voice.

"I fish, but I'm not what you would call a fisher."

"I knowed it by your speech.  Well, then, I
won't trouble 'ee, sir, this mizzly night," said the man,
with some eagerness.

"No trouble at all.  'Tis not very far."

"Well, 'twas to be," muttered the coachman.
Dick thought it was an odd thing to say.  Still more
surprised was he when the driver leant over and
extinguished the candle-flame with his fingers.
"You see," he explained, "the gentleman inside is
terrible bad, met with an accident, as 'a med say."

"Bring him to our house, then," said Dick
instantly; "my mother will be pleased to do
something for him."

"Not for gold and di'monds," replied the man
quickly.  "No, we go to Five Pilchards; 'tis a
good enough inn, I've heerd tell."

Dick said no more.  He wondered who the
stranger was, and what brought him to Polkerran,
where visitors were rare.  The carriage rumbled on
slowly; every now and then the driver made the
horses walk, though the road here was level.  It
seemed to Dick that his attitude and manner were
those of a man intently listening.

They came to the spot where a short drive led
from the road to the Dower House, which could
just be discerned, a black mass in the rain.  "That
villain has not returned, then," thought Dick, seeing
no light in the house.

At this moment there came upon their ears the
clattering sound of several horses from the foot of
the hill which they had nearly reached.  The driver
jerked his horses to a standstill, looked from side to
side, and seeing the carriage-drive, to which there
was no gate, wheeled the horses round and drove in,
not on the hard road, but on the bordering grass.

"This is a private road," said Dick, wondering.

"'Twas my thought.  These be ticklish times for
travellers, and 'tis best not to meet strange riders in
the dark.  I'll bide till they be past, and then go on
again."

He drew up under the trees about forty yards
along the drive, within a few yards of the house.
Dick heard him breathing heavily.  The clattering of
hoofs drew nearer: the driver seemed to hold his
breath; then, when the horsemen had passed the
end of the drive at a fast trot, he heaved a sigh of
relief.  He waited until the sounds had died away
in the distance, and wheeled the horses round.  There
was not room on the grass for the carriage to turn
completely, and the wheels made a crunching sound
on the pebbly road.  The side of the carriage was
still turned to the house when the door opened, and
John Trevanion appeared on the threshold, holding
a candle above his head, and peering into the dark.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Doubledick's Midnight Guests`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE NINTH


.. class:: center medium

   Doubledick's Midnight Guests

.. vspace:: 2

"Who's that?" cried Trevanion.

Dick, being on the offside, was concealed by the
driver's burly form, but he shrank back against the
front of the carriage.  He did not wish to meet his
cousin's eyes at that moment, and began to wonder
why he was on the box in the rain when he might
have ridden inside.

"Axin' yer pardon, sir," replied the coachman,
"I be afeard I've took the wrong road.  'Tis 'nation
dark, and my lamp has gone out."

"What was that clattering of horses I heard?"

"Ah, I can't tell 'ee that.  I didn't see no one.
Maybe 'twas riding-officer.  I axe yer pardon for
disturbin' ye, sir, this terrible bad night and all, and
I'll drive on to village."

"You're a stranger, aren't you?  Have you got
anybody in your carriage?"

"Never a soul, sir.  The truth is, I've lost my
way, and shan't be sorry to get out o' this pesty
rain."

"'Tis heavier now.  Well, good-night.  You'll
find a warm room in the inn at the foot of the hill,
if the innkeeper hasn't raked out the fire and gone
to bed.  Good-night."

He retreated with his guttering candle into the
house and shut the door, the coachman driving back
to the high road.  Dick was mystified.  Why had
the man denied having a passenger?  Why had he
extinguished his light and turned out of the road on
hearing horsemen?  The driver said nothing, except
to grumble under his breath at the weather, and Dick
refrained from questioning him, thinking that some
light might be thrown on the mystery when they
reached the inn.

The carriage had just wheeled into the road when
Dick felt a touch on his right arm.  He looked
round: the passenger was leaning forward out of the
window.

"How is ze name of zat man—him zat hold ze
light?" asked the stranger eagerly.

Dick hesitated; then, seeing no reason for not
answering, said: "That is Mr. John Trevanion."

"Tre—vat say you, if you please?"

"Trevanion."

"Trevanion!" repeated the questioner, giving a
strange intonation to the name.  "Ah!  Shank you."

He withdrew his head into the carriage.  Dick
heard the driver mutter:

"Why can't he clap a stopper on his tongue, the
stunpoll!"

He drove slowly down the steep winding hill.

"There's the inn," said Dick presently.
"Doubledick isn't abed, late as it is."

A light shone through the red blind of the inn
parlour.  The door was open, and Doubledick stood
in the doorway, illuminated by the light behind.
In spite of the heavy rain several men, among whom
Dick distinguished the elder Tonkin, were grouped
about the door.  They had heard the wheels of the
oncoming carriage, and there were signs of
excitement among them.  As the vehicle drew up, Tonkin
stepped forward, thrust his head in, uttered a
smothered exclamation, then opened the door hastily.
The eyes of all the men were fixed on the figure that
emerged, so that Dick on the box was not noticed.
A short, broad man, clad in a long overcoat, his
cocked hat pulled low over his brow, descended
from the carriage and went quickly into the inn, the
men following him.  The door was shut.  Feeling
that he was in a somewhat false position, Dick
seized the opportunity to slip down from his seat
and withdraw round the angle of the wall, where a
flight of steps ascended between it and the wall of
the opposite house.  He heard Tonkin speaking to
the driver; the carriage rumbled over the cobbles,
not returning up the hill, but going through the
village in the opposite direction.  Immediately
afterwards the inn door was reopened, the heavy boots
of the fishers clumped along the street, and in a few
moments nothing was to be heard except the
pattering of the rain.

Dick felt a little sore at having to trudge back
afoot, without a word of thanks.  He was drenched
to the skin.  Glancing behind as he began to climb
the hill, he saw that the light had now disappeared
from the inn-room.  The whole village was in
darkness.  More than ever dispirited and mystified, he
plodded along.  Apparently the carriage had been
expected.  He could not help connecting it with the
horsemen whom the driver had been so anxious to
avoid, and, remembering the strange accent of the
passenger, it suddenly flashed upon him that the
man might be one of Boney's spies, whom he had
unwittingly helped to escape pursuers.  But on
reflection this idea seemed untenable, because a spy
was hardly likely to appear at this remote part of
the coast, and he could not believe that the smugglers
of Polkerran, like those of the south-eastern counties,
had any treasonable communications with the French
ogre.

He was still pondering on the baffling occurrence
when the sound of horses trotting again fell on his
ear.  In a few moments he had to stand aside to
avoid being knocked down by the first of half-a-dozen
horsemen, whom, dark as it was, he recognised
by their headdress to be soldiers.  Their uniforms
were covered by their riding cloaks.  He was seen
as he shrank back: a rough voice called "Halt!"
and the horsemen reined up.

"Stand forth, in the King's name, and answer for
your life," said the same voice.

Dick went towards the foremost horseman.

"Who are you?" he was asked.

"My name is Trevanion," he replied.

"Ah!  Same as the gentleman up the hill," cried
the soldier.  "Now, tell us quick; have you seen
a coach, wagon, or other four-wheeled piece of
machinery hereabouts?"

"Yes; a two-horsed carriage drove down to the
inn yonder about twenty minutes ago."

"What road did she come?"

"This very road that you're on."

"Confusion on it!  Then how did we miss the
thing?  But there, no matter; we'll after it and
catch the villain."

Without more delay the sergeant and his men
clattered off down the hill, relieving Dick of the
necessity of giving explanations, which he felt might
be somewhat awkward.  Being now thoroughly
excited, he forgot his fatigue and wetness, and ran
after the dragoons to see what happened when they
reached the inn.  He was but a minute or two
behind them.  The village was still in complete
darkness; the rain had ceased, and the moon showed
her rim through a rift in the scudding clouds.

The troopers were at the door of the inn, five
still on horseback; the sixth had dismounted and
was rapping on the door with the hilt of his sword.

"Hang me, will he never open?" cried the man,
when repeated blows drew no response.

"Must be a rare sleeper, to be sure," said another.

"I'll bust the lock with a shot from my carbine if
he don't open soon," cried the angry sergeant.
"This is some jiggery-pokery, sure as I'm alive."

He thundered again on the door, calling upon the
innkeeper with many imprecations to open in the
King's name.  At last there was the sound of a
casement opening above.  Looking up, the troopers
saw first a blunderbuss, then an arm, and finally a
head in a white nightcap.

"Who be that a-bangin' and smitin' at an honest
man's door, when he be abed and asleep?" demanded
Doubledick's voice angrily.

"'Tis for you to answer questions, not to axe
'em," said the sergeant.  "Now, speak like a true
man, and hide nothing, or the King will have your
miserable head.  Did a carriage come down the hill
a while ago?"

"Oh, if ye be King's men I bean't afeard o' ye.
A carriage?  Why, to be sure 'a did, a half-hour ago,
or maybe more."

"And where is it now?"

"There's a question to axe a poor simple soul
wi' only two eyes.  How be I to know that, captain,
on a dark night like this?"

"Be hanged to you!  You know whether it stayed
or went on, and you'd best speak up without any
shilly-shally."

"True.  I do know that.  The carriage went on,
to be sure."

"Which way?  Speak up."

"Well, I can't 'zackly say, but 'twarn't up the hill,
so I reckon 'twas through village towards Redruth.
Iss, I reckon 'twas that."

"And the man inside?"

"Daze me if ever I knowed of any man inside.
Driver had lost his way, seemingly; 'a was like a
squashed turmit in the rain: and when he'd took
summat to comfort his innards, off-along he drove.
Warn't here five minutes, no, nor yet four."

"'Tis treason-felony and hangman's job if you're
not speaking the truth," said the sergeant.
"Confusion take him, we'll have to ride on.  Look here,
Tom; you stay here with Matthew and keep your
eye on the door.  The rest of us will ride on after the
carriage, and come back to you if we catch our man."

"What rascal of a deserter be you a-chasin' by
night, captain?" cried Doubledick.

"No deserter, but a prisoner that escaped from
Plymouth.  We've been after him all day and all
night, and smite me if it don't seem he has given us
the slip.  Come on, men."

The sergeant rode off with three of his men, the
other two dismounting and taking up their stand at
the door.

"I reckon I can go back to my warm bed now,
eh, sojers?" said Doubledick.  "But ye're sappy
wet, poor fellers, and tired too, to be sure, hikin'
arter a runaway prisoner all day and all night.  Bide
a minute till I've pulled a few garments on my cold
limbs, and I'll come down and give 'ee summat to
warm yerselves."

The nightcap disappeared, a candle was lighted,
and in a few minutes Doubledick came to the door
with two steaming beakers of hot brandy and water,
which the troopers accepted gratefully.

Dick, from the shadow of an alley, had seen and
heard all that went on.  The soldiers chatted with
the innkeeper for a while; then he retired into the
inn, shut the door, and put out the light.

A minute or two afterwards Dick saw a figure
stealing down the steps at the side of the inn, peep
round the corner, and then retreat hastily.  He
supposed it was one of the men whom he had seen
at the door previously, but was unable to distinguish
his features, owing to the deep shadows thrown on
the alley-steps by the moon.  To avoid discovery
himself, he shrank back against the blind wall.  It
must now, he thought, be nearly midnight; but,
wet though he was, he determined not to leave
the spot until he had seen how the matter ended.
Having been behind the wall when the carriage
drove away, he was not sure whether the passenger
had re-entered it or not.  The hurried manner in
which the man had gone into the inn was not that
of one who intended coming forth again.  Doubledick
had lied when he said that he knew nothing
of the occupant of the carriage; yet why should
he harbour an escaped prisoner, who was almost
certainly a Frenchman?  The mystery was deeper
than ever.

It was perhaps an hour later, and Dick was on the
point of going home, when the silence of the night
was again broken by the sharp ringing clatter of
hoofs.  The sergeant and his three men returned, a
white mist rising from their horses' backs.

"We caught the carriage," said the sergeant, as
he rode up, "but 'twas empty as a sucked egg.  The
driver said he'd lost his way on the moor coming
from Truro, and was going on home to Redruth.
Have you seen anything?"

"Not a thing," replied one of the troopers at the
door.

"Well, we must search the inn.  What a miserable
fool I was not to ask that young feller if there was
any one in the carriage when he saw it!"

Dick hesitated for a moment.  Should he tell
what he knew?  A French prisoner was an enemy
of his country; might it not be his duty to help the
dragoons to capture him?  But reflecting that the
man might be nothing worse than a smuggler, in
which case to inform against him would only embitter
the inimical feeling of the villagers against him,
besides being an ungracious act in itself, he decided
to say nothing.

After a long-continued knocking and the expenditure
of much abusive language, Doubledick once
more opened the door.

"Ye'll gie me the rheumatiz and send me to my
grave," he said with a whine.  "What be ye rampin'
men o' war wantin' now?"

"We're going to search your inn for that there
mounseer, my fine feller, and you'd best take it
quiet, or you'll find yourself strapped to one of our
hosses and carried with all your bones a-rattling
afore the Colonel."

"Search, if ye must.  Name it all, why should I
hinder 'ee!  Turn the inn topsy-versy, ye'll find
nothing but maybe a rat or a cockroach."

The sergeant and two of the troopers entered.
They searched the tap-room, the inn-parlour, kitchen,
cellars, bedrooms, lofts; rummaged cupboards, empty
barrels, a clock-case, the copper in the scullery, an
overturned water butt in the backyard; all to no
purpose.

"He's not here, that's certain," said the sergeant
at last, dashing the perspiration from his brow.
"We must have overshot the villain somehow.
Plague on it!  We shall have to ride back to Truro
and try to get on his tracks, or the Colonel will be
in a rare passion."

"I won't ask 'ee to stay, brave men," said Doubledick,
"knowing what terrible rages noble officers do
fly into.  But a nibleykin o' real old stingo won't
do 'ee no harm, and ye can drink confusion to
Boney.  Hee! hee!"

All the soldiers accepted the liquor with alacrity,
and the two who had already tasted its quality winked
at each other, not acquainting their comrades with
their previous pleasurable experience.  Smacking
their lips and declaring that the innkeeper was a real
good-hearted fellow, they remounted and rode up
the hill.  Doubledick watched them until they were
out of sight, a leer of triumph on his face.  Dick
heard him chuckle as he shut the door and shuffled
up the stairs.  The light was extinguished, and
Dick, vexed with himself for remaining so long and
so unprofitably, set off homeward in the track of
the dragoons.

A few minutes after he had left, a heavily-cloaked
figure—the same that Dick had seen a while before—stole
down the steps at the side of the inn, and,
looking round cautiously, approached the door and
rapped six times upon it, pausing a brief while after
every second tap.  Immediately after the sixth, the
casement above opened, and Doubledick, looking
out, said in a hoarse whisper:

"Be that you, Zacky?"

"No, 'tis I, John Trevanion.  Come down and
let me in, Doubledick."

"Good sakes, I didn' know 'ee was to home,
Maister John.  Thought 'ee was still in Lunnon
town.  A pretty stoor there's been to-night.  Bide
a minute, sir."

He lit his candle, descended, let Trevanion in,
and barred the door behind him.

"I never thought you were such a fool," said
Trevanion, angrily eyeing the nightcapped and
nightgowned innkeeper.  "What on earth possessed
you to harbour Delarousse?"

"Chok' it all, why shouldn't I?" replied Doubledick
truculently.  "Bean't he a good friend of ourn?
Who better?"

"Confound you, he's a Frenchman, and a runaway
prisoner.  The soldiers will get on his track
again, and your ridiculous folly will be the ruin of
us all.  You have no business to run such risks."

In his anger Trevanion raised his voice.

"Risks, do 'ee say?  Jown me if you hain't run
risks yerself, Maister John, and a deal bigger;
hee! hee!"

"Silence!" shouted Trevanion.  "Don't provoke
me, or upon my soul and body I'll——"

The threat died on his lips, for at this moment a
door opened at the further end of the passage in
which they stood, and there appeared the short,
rotund form of the passenger who had descended
from the carriage some hours before.  The overcoat
and the cocked hat were gone; the Frenchman wore
the rough fustian, marked with a broad arrow, in
which the authorities arrayed prisoners.  His eyes
gleamed with the fire of hatred as he looked full at
Trevanion, who on his part returned glare for glare,
but whose countenance wore a strange expression,
which Doubledick, watching him, could not fathom.

"It is you," said the Frenchman, in his own
tongue.  "You, Robinson—or Trevanion, is it
not so?"

"You be known to each other, then?" said
Doubledick.  "Hee! hee!  Why don't 'ee shake
hands, like friends?"

"Silence!" cried the Frenchman sternly.  "You
go," he added, addressing Doubledick in English.
"I haf somezink to say to zis monsieur—Trevanion."

He took the candle from the astonished inn-keeper's
hand, and motioned to Trevanion to enter
the parlour.  Following him, he shut and bolted the
door, leaving Doubledick in the dark passage.  The
innkeeper promptly knelt down and put his ear to
the keyhole, but since he knew almost nothing of
French, he understood little of the ensuing dialogue,
which was conducted in that tongue.

"You see I have found you,
monsieur—Trevanion," said Delarousse.  "You thought, no
doubt, that you had escaped me when you landed
that dark night.  But you should not have come to
Polkerran; that was a foolish step for one so clever
to take.  You would have been caught, but for a
sudden alarm from the shore; yet it mattered little
that I had to sail away then, for, as you see, I have
found you—cheat, thief, scoundrel!"

Trevanion did not flinch as the Frenchman hissed
these words at him.  He thrust his hand into the
breast pocket of his cloak.

"Aha!" laughed Delarousse.  "You have a pistol?
I have not.  You would like to shoot me, but you
dare not.  I should like to shoot you, but I have
no weapon, and, equally, if I had, I dare not.  I will
not hang for you: so you deal in this country with
men that kill others, is it not so?  But I tell you,
Trevanion—that is a name I do not forget—I tell you
that you shall not escape.  It is not the time now,
but there will come a day when you shall repent of
having deceived and robbed the man who trusted
you.  Once more I tell you what you are: cheat,
thief, scoundrel!"

"Pretty words, monsieur," said Trevanion with a
sneer.  "You had better take warning.  This
country is not safe for Frenchmen.  You have
escaped from prison, by some piece of imbecile
folly——"

"Not so," interposed Delarousse.  "It was by
the skill of good friends, who are loyal to one that
has done business loyally with them.  They would
have taken me to Roscoff in their lugger, and tried
to dissuade me when I said that I should come here.
But they helped me.  One of them risked his neck
to drive me here, and my true friends have guarded
me.  I came to assure myself that the man who
called himself Robinson lives here in this village.  I
saw you from the carriage when you stood at your
door; I learnt your real name, and now, once more
I say it, I will wait my time, and you shall pay for
your knavery."

"I care nothing for your threats.  You have been
lucky to escape once; you will not escape a second
time.  Set foot on this shore again and the whole
country will rise at you.  Expect no mercy from me."

"Mercy!  From you!  Mon Dieu, is it you
that talk of mercy?"

He broke off, and let out a gust of harsh,
sardonic laughter.  Then, thrusting himself forward,
he cried:

"Bah!  I spit at you!  When all men know
you as I know you there will be no talk of mercy.
Are you fool as well as villain?  Go!  Return to
your fine house.  Flourish on my money.  It shall
be for a season, and then!——"

Trevanion bit his lip.  His expression told of a
struggle for self-control.  He glared at the
Frenchman for a few moments; then, with a hollow laugh,
he moved towards the door.

"Do your worst," he said, turning with his hand
on the bolt.  "I am in England; I defy you; and,
by heaven!  I promise you ten feet of English rope
as a spy 'if you dare to show yourself here again."

He drew back the bolt, causing Doubledick to
scuttle like a rat along the passage.  A mocking
laugh followed Trevanion as he strode from the inn.

Before there was the least hint of dawn in the
sky, a man, unrecognisable in oilskins and
sou'-wester, stole from the house next to the inn, where
he had been concealed when the dragoons made
their search, and walked rapidly to the jetty.
Tonkin's lugger, the *Isaac and Jacob*, lay alongside.
Delarousse stepped on board; the vessel cast off;
and by the time that the mass of the villagers were
awake, the guest, whose presence few had known,
was several leagues nearer to the French shore.

But the departure of the lugger had not been
wholly unobserved.  In the little white cottage on
the cliff, Joe Penwarden had enjoyed a full night's
sleep, as he usually did when the moon was up.
The sound of horses on the high road did not reach
him, and he was ignorant of the strange happenings
in the village.  But the moon was in its last quarter;
the "darks" would soon return, and with them the
activity of the smugglers might be expected to be
resumed.  The cargoes were sometimes brought
from Roscoff in French luggers, sometimes in the
*Isaac and Jacob*, and Penwarden was accustomed to
watch the sailings of Tonkin's vessel.  On this
particular morning he woke early, and after he had
kindled a fire, he rested his telescope on the
window-sill to take a look round while the kettle was
boiling.  He soon spied the well-known lugger scudding
along under full sail.

"So you be at it again, Zacky," he murmured
with a chuckle, as he shut the telescope.  "Well,
please God, I'll be ready for 'ee."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Fire Bell at the Towers`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE TENTH


.. class:: center medium

   The Fire Bell at the Towers

.. vspace:: 2

Next day the escape of Jean Delarousse, smuggler
and privateer, was the talk of the countryside.  The
dragoons had called at the Towers and roused the
Squire from bed, supposing that he was a magistrate
and would assist them.  Then they rode for several
miles across the moor until they came to Sir Bevil
Portharvan's house.  That gentleman promised to
raise the hue and cry next day, and called up his
servants to ask if any of them had seen a carriage
cross the moor that evening.  The groom declared
that as he rode back from an errand in Truro he had
seen a moving light some distance to the left,
concluding that it probably proceeded from a belated
carrier's cart on the way to Polkerran.  On this the
troopers galloped back, and seeing a light in the
Dower House they called there and acquainted John
Trevanion with their errand.  He guessed at once
that the fugitive had been in the carriage which had
turned into his drive, and inwardly cursed his
ill-luck in missing the opportunity of laying by the
heels a man whose recapture would have rejoiced
him; but having reasons of his own for not
disclosing his knowledge of the man, he forbore to
mention the earlier incident, and contented himself
with wishing the pursuers success.  When they had
gone he cloaked himself and followed them down
the hill, being but a few hundred yards behind Dick,
whom he did not see in the darkness and the twists
and turns of the road.

There was not a man in the village but suspected
that the Frenchman had got away on Tonkin's
lugger; but not one of them would have said a
word to betray him.  Delarousse was not an enemy,
but a friend with whom they had profitable dealings.
When Sir Bevil rode down and questioned
Doubledick and others, it was clear to him from their
manner that they would give no information; and
guessing, when he heard that Tonkin had sailed
early that morning, that the Frenchman had gone
with him, he was rather relieved than otherwise, for,
like all the gentry around, he bought his liquor
cheap, and was never depressed when the revenue
officers were outwitted.

Two days passed.  Sam Pollex reported that there
was a subdued air of excitement in the village.
Mr. Polwhele, the riding-officer, was seen speaking to
Penwarden, and the revenue cutter, which had been
absent for some time, once more anchored in the
little harbour.  Mr. Mildmay did not come ashore:
he seldom did so during the smuggling season; but
one of his men trudged up the hill to Penwarden's
cottage, and did not return.  These facts made Dick
tingle with excitement: but the Squire had
forbidden him to go near the smugglers again, so that
he was unable to keep watch for the run which he,
like everyone else in Polkerran, expected to take
place.

On the third morning, when Dick was tramping
over the cliff with his gun towards a cleft where he
had heard that a pair of choughs had nested, he saw
Penwarden smoking on the bench beside his cottage
door.

"Morning to 'ee, Maister Dick," he said.

"Good morning, Joe.  You look very spry,"
replied Dick genially.

"Well, and I feel spry, to be sure.  Haven't 'ee
heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Why, how we brought up the smugglers wi' a
round turn last night."

"Did you?  Tell me about it, Joe.  I wish I
had seen it, but Father won't let me out of the house
at night now."

"Why for, maister?"

"Because I got home very late the other night,
and he's afraid I shall get my head broken, I think,
now that the folks are so set against us."

"'Tis a very wise commandment of the Squire.
Well, I'll tell 'ee.  Never was they so flambustered
afore.  When I seed *Isaac and Jacob* goin' off so
merry t'other morning, I guessed she wouldn't come
back empty, the wind favourin' and all.  So what
do I do but put on my considerin' cap——"

"That means a pipe and a bowl of rum, doesn't
it?" said Dick with a laugh.

"I won't say but it do.  Thinks I, now where
will they try to run their cargo?  Tonkin went off
in a 'nation hurry, and the reason o't you know as
well as I, but we won't speak o' that.  There warn't
time for him to fix up with the shoremen, leastways
with many of 'em, afore he went, so thinks I, Zacky
won't try to carry his kegs inland.  What then?
Why, she'd sink 'em somewheres off the coast, and
let 'em lay till he gets a chance o' liftin' 'em.  I've
knowed a crop o' goods lay for a month afore they
could be lifted."

"Doesn't it spoil the spirits?" asked Dick.

"It do, if the tubs lay too long.  Then the spirits
be stinkibus and fit for nothing.  Howsomever,
they'll sink 'em, thinks I, and what's to be the
place?  Well, I mind that ten year or more ago
they dropped a big crop just beyond St. Cuby's
Cove, and got 'em clean away in two nights, while
Mr. Curgenven was playin' cat and mouse miles down
the coast.  Says I to myself, that's the very place."

"But how did you know it ten years ago?"

"By one or two things I noticed when I went
a-rambling at foot of cliffs; trifles I could hardly tell
'ee of.  That's the very place, says I, so I has a little
talk with Mr. Polwhele, and he made it known to
Mr. Mildmay, and betwixt us we hitched up a pretty
scheme to circumvent 'em.  And I was right, and
wrong too, as you'll see.

"Well, we sent over to Plymouth for a half-troop
of dragoons, and put them in Penruddock's empty
farmhouse on the moor yonder.  They came quiet
last night, and not a soul knowed about 'em.  You
see, 'twas only my calcerlation as Tonkin wouldn't
try a run, and 'twas best to be on the safe tack,
as you may say.  Wi' the dragoons on shore,
and Mr. Mildmay at sea, we reckoned we'd spoil
their game, whether 'twas sinkin' or runnin'.  When
'twas dark, we brought the sojers down to shore,
and put 'em among the rocks on each side of where
I thought 'twould happen.  I had a sort o' suspicion
that the smugglers had a hiding-place somewhere
along shore thereabouts, though I'd never been able
to find it."

"What made you suspect that?"

"Because we grappled for the sunk crop two days
arter 'twas sunk, but 'twas gone; yet 'twas more
than a week arterwards afore the stuff was carr'd
into the country, so it must ha' been hid somewhere.
Well, we had waited some hours, and the cutter had
sailed away down the coast to put 'em off the scent,
when just afore six bells we heard the creakin' o' the
lugger's gear, and I knowed I was right.  At the
same time the fellers come creepin' round the cliff
from the village.  'Twas to be a run arter all.  Our plan
was to let 'em get warm to work, and not pounce on
'em till we'd seed where their hiding-place was.
Mr. Mildmay meant to fetch about and come on 'em from
seaward, while the sojers took 'em from landwards.

"Drown it all, 'twas ruined—ruined, I say; but
'twas not so bad as that neither—'twas almost ruined,
by a sappy landlubber of a sojer.  The unloadin'
was goin' on as merry as you please when this soft
stunpoll of a chap let out a sneeze fit to blow yer
gaff off.  'Twas all up then; no good waiting for
Mr. Mildmay; the smugglers' look-outs heard the
tishum and gave the alarm.  Mr. Polwhele blew his
whistle for the attack, and we pounced out from our
lairs, sojers and tidesmen, and dashed upon 'em from
two sides at once.

"Some of 'em dropped their tubs like hot taters,
and slipped off in the darkness.  But the rest stood
their ground like men, and there was a tidy little
tumble, pistols cracking, cutlasses flashing——"

"How could they flash in the dark?" said Dick.

"You could hear 'em if you couldn't see 'em, and
I don't care who the man is, I call that flashin'.
There was some pretty wounds dinted on both sides,
but as 'ee med think, the sojers' swordplay was a
trifle more learned than the free-traders', and arter
some time we King's men got the better o't, and
they couldn't stand against us no longer.  But that
sneeze: why couldn't the feller clap it under for five
minutes more?  We catched nine of the smugglers,
and laid them tied hand and foot on the beach.  But
the rest got away, and drown it all, Tonkin was one
of 'em.  I knowed un by his size, and a sojer and I
and some more had him betwixt us, but he let out
with those sledge-hammer fists of his, spun a sojer
this way and a tidesman that, and by long and short
broke his moorings and swam out to the lugger.  If
that sneeze hadn't come so soon Mr. Mildmay would
have been there with the cutter, and we should ha
catched the whole crew.  But 'twas not to be.  By
the time the cutter fetched up, the lugger was well
out to sea, and we lost her.  But we've got the nine
men, who'll have to choose betwixt gaol and the
King's service, and I've chalked the broad arrow on
twenty-four tubs, which be now half-way to the
King's store at St. Ives."

"And did you discover the hiding-place?"

"Chok' it all, we did not.  Maybe there's no
such thing.  But 'twas a proper tit-for-tat for the
knock they give me, and I reckon 'twill be some
time afore they fly their colours again."

"'Tis the biggest haul you've ever made, isn't
it?" asked Dick.

"We've got more tubs afore, but never so many
men.  I'm a deal more cheerful in my mind than I
used to be.  We are doing the King's work better
in these parts than 'twas done in Mr. Curgenven's
time, and I hope them above will remember it."

Dick went on.  He was pleased for the old man's
sake that he was so well succeeding in his duty; but
at the same time was full of misgiving as to the
hatred his energy would breed among the village folk.

When he returned later in the day from a vain
quest for the choughs, Sam Pollex told him that the
village was seething with rage, and everybody was
asking what had become of Doubledick.  He was
not among the nine men who had been carted to
Plymouth; search had been made for his dead body
on the shore; it was known that he had been among
the tub-carriers, but nobody had seen him since the
fight.

The mystery was solved at nightfall.  The inn-keeper,
dressed as a peaceable fisherman, trudged
into the village with a fat goose on his back, and
declared with a wink that he had been on a short visit
to his friend Farmer Nancarrow, five miles distant.
His cronies knew that Doubledick had adopted this
course as a blind to the revenue officers if they made
an inquisitive visit to his inn.  However strong their
suspicions, they could not proceed against him with
any chance of success.  They were in the same
difficulty in regard to Tonkin, whom none could
swear to, his face having been blackened.  Nor
could it be proved even that it was his lugger which
had brought the cargo.  When the *Isaac and Jacob*
came into the harbour next day and was boarded by
the revenue officers, it contained nothing but a few
hundredweight of fish; and though grappling
operations were conducted in St. Cuby's Cove, and
for some distance on each side of it, no discovery of
sunken tubs was made.

It was a fact, often remarked on in after days by
the Polkerran folk, that the only spectator on the
jetty when Tonkin's lugger put in—exclusive of the
revenue officers, a toothless old fisher, Ike Pendry's
sweetheart, and a handful of children—was Mr. John
Trevanion.  He seemed to be in the top of good
humour; joked with Mr. Mildmay, gave the old
fisher a plug of tobacco, favoured Marty Bream with
an admiring glance, and chucked the children under
the chin.  When the lieutenant's examination was
concluded, and Tonkin came ashore, a free man, but
under suspicion, Mr. Trevanion had a word for him
too, asked to see his catch, and bought some of the
finest of the fish.  Then with a nod to Mr. Mildmay
he strolled with easy gait up the hill.

That Tonkin himself, an hour or two later, should
carry his fish to the Dower House was natural
enough, but it was not perhaps quite so natural that,
having delivered them to Susan for transmission to
the cook, he should have been asked to step into the
house and taken to the master's own room.  Nor
was it likely, when he was let out at the front door
by Mr. Trevanion an hour later, that the conversation
which had passed between them in the interim
had for its subject nothing but fish.  Nobody in
Polkerran knew of this visit, or some intelligent
person might have suspected that it had a connection
with a remarkable change that came about in the
villagers' manner of regarding Monsieur Jean
Delarousse.  Hitherto they had looked upon him as
a keen man of business, with whom it was as safe as
it was honourable to have dealings of a free-trade
nature.  But from that day they cherished a sour
distrust of him; they resolved to do business with
him no longer, and to transfer their custom to
another merchant of Roscoff, whose name is of no
importance in this history.  In this transference
they followed the lead of Tonkin, blindly—all but
Doubledick, who swam with the current, indeed, so
far as outward appearances went; but in the privacy
of his own cunning mind, buzzing still with the
recollection of what he had heard through the
keyhole of his parlour door, indulged in speculations of
a very tantalising nature, and wondered what
Maister John's little game was.

Whether the relation of cause and effect existed
between this meeting of Trevanion and Tonkin, and
an event that took place a few hours later at the
Towers, is a matter on which the reader may presently
form his own conclusion.

Dick had gone to bed a little earlier than usual, tired
out after a long tramp over the moor in search of wild
fowl.  His room faced the sea, and he had left his
window open, as his practice was except in stormy
weather.  In the dead of night he suddenly found
himself awake, and wondered why, for he had not
been dreaming, nor was he conscious of having heard
a sound.  But in a few seconds he was aware of an
unusual smell, that appeared to be wafted through
the window on the sea breeze.  It was the smell of
burning wood.  He leapt out of bed, ran to the
casement, and looked out over a row of outhouses
that extended for some yards from the dwelling
towards the cliff.  One glance was sufficient.  The
tool-house at the furthermost end was on fire.

Quickly pulling on his breeches, he ran to the
adjoining room, occupied by Sam, hauled the snoring
boy from his bed, shook him vigorously, and cried—

"The tool-house is on fire!  Run to the turret
and pull the bell.  Quick!  The breeze is off the
sea, and we shall have the whole place in a blaze."

Then he rushed to Reuben's room on the lower
floor, wakened the old man, and told him to fill every
bucket he could find with water from the well.  Lastly,
he ran to his parents, breaking the news gently so as
not to terrify his mother.  By this time the alarm
bell was clanging its quick strokes out into the night.

Dick ran out of the house to the well-head near
the dismantled stables, where Reuben already had
two buckets filled and was still pumping vigorously.
He caught up the buckets, hurried to the
conflagration, and flung the water on the flames.  But
it was clear that they had got such a hold upon the
shed that to extinguish them with water laboriously
pumped from the well would be impossible.  The
wind was steadily carrying the fire toward the main
building, and unless the blaze could be checked
within a few minutes, the old place was doomed.

To fetch more water would, Dick saw, be a waste
of time.  What could be done?  Between the burning
tool-shed and the dwelling-house was a long wooden
structure that contained the brew-house and a shed
in which Reuben kept vegetables, grain for the pigs,
and other materials.  Dick remembered that the
brew-house, though substantially built, was worm-eaten,
and, like the rest of the Towers, had not been
repaired within memory.  Acting on an idea which
had suddenly struck him, he ran at full speed to the
scullery, brought thence a rope and, returning, made
his way with it through the smoke into the
brew-house, and attached it firmly to one of the stout
timbers supporting the roof.

The Squire had now come upon the scene.

"We must pull down the brew-house, Father,"
cried Dick.  "'Tis the only chance to prevent the
flames from spreading."

Together they hauled upon the rope.  The
timber did not give an inch.  They summoned
Reuben to assist them, but the oak, worm-eaten
though it was, resisted their united efforts.

"Once more!  Pull all together," cried Dick in
despair.  The post did not move.

"Ha, Squire!" shouted a voice behind, "I see
what you are about.  'Tis a good notion.  Give me
a hold."

"Polwhele, 'tis you.  We'll be glad of your arm."

"Did you ride, sir?" cried Dick eagerly.

"I did," replied the riding-officer.  "Egad!  I
see your meaning.  My horse is hitched to the
fence.  I'll bring him in a second."

He ran off, returning soon with his horse, which
pranced and snorted when it came within the smoke
and heat.  Mr. Polwhele and Dick knotted the rope
to the animal's collar, while the Squire covered its
eyes with his coat.  They turned its head away from
the flames, and smote its flanks.  It started forward,
almost escaping from the grasp of Mr. Polwhele, who
held it by the bridle.  The post, already weakened
by the previous straining, gave at last, and a portion
of the roof fell in with a crash.  The same operation
was performed on a similar post in the opposite
corner.  This was brought down at the first pull,
and all that remained of the brew-house was a heap
of laths, beams, tiles, and broken utensils.

They proceeded then to smother the ruins with
water and earth, paying no heed to the blazing
tool-house.  After some twenty minutes the flames began
to subside; they poured more water, as quickly as
it could be drawn, on the glowing ruins, and had the
satisfaction of seeing that the demolition of the
brew-house had been effective.  The fire spread no
further; the Towers was saved.

Panting and perspiring with their exertions, the
four men stood for a while in silence, watching the
gradual dwindling of the flames.

"That bell may stop," cried Mr. Polwhele
suddenly.  "'Tis well pulled, whoever is doing it,
but to little good, it seems.  'Pon my soul, I'm the
only man that has come to its call."

"Ah!  You see how things are with me," said
the Squire bitterly.  "Not a soul cares whether the
Towers burns to the ground, and I and mine in it.
I remember, forty years ago, when the place took
fire, the bell brought the whole village to our help.
Now they'll lie abed and laugh to think I'm homeless."

"'Tis a disgrace and a scandal," cried the
riding-officer, "and I'll tell them so.  The idiots, to
suppose you would inform on them!  I'll set that
right, Squire; I blame myself for not doing it
before, but I believed they would come to their
senses."

"You will waste your breath, Polwhele.  Don't
attempt it for me.  I could tell you one way to
dash their enmity, but that's impossible."

"What is it?"

"Send John Trevanion where he came from.
'Tis he that is poisoning folks' minds against us;
yes, 'tis he."

At this point Dick returned from the house,
whither he had been to stop the ringing of the bell.
Sam came with him.

"Now, young Sam," said his father wrathfully,
"'twas you that started this blaze, I'll be bound, wi'
yer mischief and jiggery.  I'll leather 'ee, that I
will."

"Be choked if I did!" was Sam's indignant cry.
"Why do 'ee say it, Feyther?  You think because
I break a dish now and again that I do all the
mischief, but I don't care who the man is, I hain't
been nigh tool-house or brew-house this mortal day."

"Then who did it?  Tell me that."

"I can't tell what I don't know, but if I med put
a meanin' to it, I'd say 'twas done by the same hands
as cut our lines and set our boat adrift, be drowned
to 'em."

"By heaven, I see it!" cried the Squire, smiting
one fist with the other.  "'Tis part of the scheme,
Polwhele.  They will stick at nothing.  Penwarden
caught young Tonkin cutting Dick's lines, as you
know, and I thrashed him.  They avenge him by
firing my house.  I'll clap them in jail; unpopular
as I am, the justices can't refuse to punish such a
crime."

"You've no proof, Squire," said Mr. Polwhele.
"You can't arrest the whole village on suspicion.
And now I think of it, if it is as you say, there is no
need to suppose your cousin is at the bottom of
it.  You have no proof."

The Squire was silent.  Mr. Polwhele's view was
no doubt that which would be taken by the majority
of people.  Mr. Trevanion was conscious of the
weakness of his position, and regretted that in his
impulsiveness and resentment he had spoken so
freely.  The only facts upon which his conviction of
his cousin's venomous treachery depended were the
purchase of the mortgages and the subsequent
fencing-in of the acquired property, and neither
singly nor in combination were these strong enough
to justify his accusation before reasonable people.

"Well, well," said the Squire at last, "I may be
wrong.  I say no more about it.  But this
persecution has gone far enough, and 'tis time it was
stopped, though how to stop it I know no more
than the dead."

"I'll see what I can do, Squire.  The Towers is
saved, and glad I am of it.  'Tis to be hoped the
wretches will try their tricks no more."

He mounted and rode away, the Squire having
warmly thanked him for his assistance.  The four
inmates of the Towers then returned to their beds.

"You did well, Dick," said the Squire as they
parted.  "'Twas a good thought of yours to pull
down the posts; without it we might have been
burnt out.  We'll hold fast to the old place a while
longer, my lad."

To his wife he related all that had happened, and
mentioned what Mr. Polwhele had said about his
suspicion of John Trevanion.

"I've no proof, that's true; but in my heart I
know it; time will show whether I'm right or
wrong."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Sir Bevil Intervenes`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH


.. class:: center medium

   Sir Bevil Intervenes

.. vspace:: 2

Soon after breakfast next morning Dick and Sam
went down to the shore to launch their boat for a
day's fishing.  The post to which it was moored
being close under the cliffs, they did not come in
sight of it until they reached the foot of the winding
path.  Then Sam, who was walking ahead, uttered a cry.

"What is it?" asked Dick, hurrying on.

"Scrounch it all, look 'ee, Maister Dick!"

The boat lay on the white sand, but it was a
navigable vessel no longer.  It had been sawn across
in three places.  The old craft, which had withstood
for forty years the battering of innumerable waves
and the more insidious attacks of time, and in which
three generations of Trevanions had sailed upon the
deep, would be launched no more.  It would henceforth
serve no useful end except as firewood.

Dick felt first a pang of grief, then a surge of
bitter rage.  His enemies could not have chosen a
more galling or vindictive means of wreaking their
ill-will.  They had dealt with the boat as the
smugglers' craft were dealt with when captured by
the revenue officers.  Dick saw in their act a subtle
indication of the thoroughness with which they
identified him with the Government men.  It said:
"You have joined the revenue officers; very well,
we treat you as they treat us."  He had no doubt
that the destruction of the boat and the firing of the
tool-house were parts of one scheme.

"The cowards!" he exclaimed, "to do behind
our backs what they durst not do to our face."

"'Tis a miserable, dirty deed," agreed Sam.  "We
must tell of it to the high powers."

"Much good that will be!" cried Dick bitterly.
"We can't tell who did it; Sir Bevil will only
instruct Petherick, and he is too much of a fool ever
to find out, if he wanted to, which is unlikely.  We
can do nothing, Sam."

"How can we go fishing now?" said Sam
gloomily.  "'Tis takin' the bread out of our mouth,
that's what it is.  They mean us to starve, the
wretches."

The loss of the boat was indeed a serious blow to
the family at the Towers.  The principal source of
their food supply was cut off.  In the present state
of war between them and the villagers it would be
impossible to borrow a boat, and the only place from
which the boys could now fish the sea was the head
of the jetty, where they would come into awkward
contact with the hostile fishermen.

Dick examined the segments, with a lingering hope
that even now old Reuben, who had so often
patched and caulked the boat, might be able to repair
it.  But the destroyers had done their work only too
well; he turned away without a word, and gloomily
wended his way homeward.

As he walked towards the house, he saw a horseman
riding down the road towards the village.  At
a second glance he recognised him as Sir Bevil
Portharvan.  When he reached home his father
told him that Mr. Polwhele had ridden over to
Portharvan House very early, and informed Sir
Bevil of the night's occurrence.  That gentleman
had never been on more than speaking terms with
Squire Trevanion; it is not easy for a wealthy man
to be cordial with one who has gone down in the
world and yet retains his pride.  Sir Bevil
disapproved of the Squire's attitude to his cousin, which
seemed to him the outcome of sheer envy.  But he
was sufficiently loyal to his class to be greatly
incensed at the criminal action of which the riding
officer told him, and he promised to exert his
influence as a magistrate to prevent any further
proceedings of the same kind.

He rode to the Towers, learnt the particulars
from the Squire's lips, and, having coldly expressed
his sympathy, went on.  As he came to the Dower
House it occurred to him to see John Trevanion,
whom he had met often of late, and ask him to use
his efforts to put down the persecution.  Trevanion's
attitude was admirably correct.  He acknowledged
that he was on bad terms with the Squire; deplored
the breach, which was not of his making; and
promised to let it be known in the village that he
disapproved of such violent measures as the people
had recently taken.  That was as much as he could
do.  Sir Bevil went away feeling that John Trevanion
was an excellent fellow, and regarding his own errand
even more in the light of a troublesome duty than
he had done before.

From the Dower House he went straight to the
inn, which was the focus of the village life, and the
place from which his views would radiate with every
man who left it after drinking his ale, cider, or
brandy.  Reining up at the door, he called
Doubledick forth.

"Good mornin', yer honour," said the innkeeper,
rubbing his hands deferentially as he obeyed the
great man's command.

"Look here, Doubledick," said Sir Bevil bluntly,
"I've heard of what went on at the Towers last
night.  That sort of thing won't do, you know; it
must be stopped, and you can tell your customers I
say so.  Free-trading is all very well, but arson is
an ugly word and a hanging matter; and, egad! if
any man is caught playing such low tricks, and
brought before me, he'll get no mercy, I promise
you.  Make that clear, will you?"

"Iss sure, Sir Bevil," replied the innkeeper.
"'Twas a cruel deed, the Squire bein' so cast down
and all.  I'll tell the folks yer very words, sir, that
I will."

"That's right.  I saw Mr. John Trevanion on
the way down, and he agreed with me, so there will
be an eye on the village nearer than mine."

"Oh, if you seed Maister John, Sir Bevil, 'tis as
good as seein' the Lord High Constable o' the county,
I warrant 'ee.  Folks think a deal o' Maister John,
they do."

A keener observer than Sir Bevil might have
detected a spice of irony in Doubledick's remark.
But the baronet was satisfied, and after yielding to
the innkeeper's invitation to take a glass to help him
on his homeward journey, he rode off with the
comfortable sense of having done his duty.

When Dick went to the Parsonage that afternoon
for his usual lesson, he told Mr. Carlyon all that
had happened.  On the next Sunday the vicar
preached an excellent sermon from the text, "Cursed
be he that removeth his neighbour's landmark,"
which the women listened to without understanding,
the men going to sleep as usual.

The loss of the boat caused something like
consternation among the inmates of the Towers.
The Squire could not afford to buy a new one; how
was the necessary fishing to be carried on?  This
problem taxed the wits of Dick, who lay awake for
two nights pondering and puzzling.  Then the
thought came to him, why not build a boat?  He
had never attempted such a ticklish piece of work,
but he was pretty handy with tools, and the idea of
setting his wits against the machinations of the
enemy fixed his resolution.

He remembered sorrowfully that with the burnt
tool-house had perished his tools and the carpenter's
bench at which he had been accustomed to work.
But he could borrow the necessary implements from
Petherick, the sexton, who did all the repairs required
at the church and the Parsonage.  There was no
lack of timber in the planking of the ruined portion
of the Towers.  The most formidable obstacle was
his absolute ignorance of the art of boat-building,
but a means of overcoming that soon suggested
itself.

The Polkerran fishers obtained their boats from
St. Ives, fifteen or sixteen miles away.  A tramp of
that distance was nothing to a healthy lad, so, early
one morning, taking some bread and cheese in a
wallet, and telling no one of his intention, Dick set
off.  It was a raw November day; the road was
wet and muddy, and as Dick passed under the trees
along the route his face and neck were bespattered
by the drippings from their bare boughs.  But he
made light of such ordinary discomforts of winter;
the swinging pace at which he walked set his blood
coursing, and by the time he arrived at St. Ives his
whole body was in a healthy glow.  He entered an
inn and moistened his dry fare with a glass of ale,
then found his way to the principal boat-builder's
yard, and stood looking on as the workmen sawed
and planed and hammered.  The builder had no
secret to guard; his yard was open to any one who
cared to visit it.  He gave Dick a friendly greeting;
the men threw a glance at him, and went on with
their work and their gossip as unconcernedly as
though he were not there.

Having spent several hours thus, strolling through
the town to warm himself while the men were at
dinner, he set off in the afternoon on his long
tramp homeward, going over in his head the details
of the operations he had witnessed.  Next day he
appeared in the yard at the same time.  The
master-builder himself was absent, and there was a shade
of surprise in the men's expression of face as they
saw him enter; but, as before, they paid no attention
to him, and showed neither interest nor curiosity.

On the third day, however, when he again made
his appearance, their rustic stolidity was penetrated
at last.

"Mornin' to 'ee, sonny," said the foreman builder,
a cheerful-looking veteran of sixty; "you be as
regular as church-clock, to be sure."

Dick smiled and returned the man's greeting.

"You will know a boat from keel to gunwale,"
continued the foreman.

"That's what I've come for," said Dick.

"Well, now, think o' that!"

"Didn't I tell 'ee so, gaffer?" remarked one of
the men.

"True, you did, and a clever seein' eye you have
got, Ben."

"And *I* said 'a was not a common poor man,"
said another.  "That's what *I* said, bean't it, Ben?"

"Iss, fay, they was yer very words."

"Well, sir," said the foreman, "seein' that these
clever fellers have seed so far into ye, maybe
you'll tell what's your hidden purpose in lookin'
at we."

"I'm learning how to build a boat," replied Dick.

"Good now!  You never thought o' that, Ben,
clever as ye be, I warrant 'ee.  Well, sonny—sir,
I mean—I've been nigh fifty year larnin' to build a
boat, and I bean't done larnin' yet."

"That's bad news, because I want to build one in
a week or two."

"Well, I won't say but you can make some sort
of a tub in the time, but 'twill be a wambly figure o'
fun, and be very useful for givin' ye a sea-bath.
Ha! ha!"

"There's no harm in trying, though," said Dick,
good-humouredly.  "Perhaps if you'd let me try
my hand I might pick up a notion or two."

"I don't mind if I do.  Just set they thwarts in
the splines; that's a little small job, and we'll see
how 'ee do set about it."

Dick stripped off his coat, rolled up his sleeves,
and proceeded to perform the task given him, the
foreman watching him critically the while.

"Not so bad," he said when the job was finished.
"I won't say but Maister will cuss when he do see
it, but 'tis not so bad for a young feller; what do
'ee say, my sonnies?"

The men left their work and inspected Dick's,
twisting their necks, pressing their lips together, and
showing other marks of solemn consideration.  They
pronounced the work pretty good, and declared they
wouldn't have believed it.

The foreman gave Dick other little jobs to do,
and being more pleased with the lad's handiness
than he had admitted, he took pains to instruct him.
Dick learnt about ribs and splines; how to steam
the ribs and give the necessary "flare"; the
difficulty of getting the planking to "fly" to a true
curve without "shramming"; and many other
technical details which dashed his hope of being able
to build a boat in a week.

"Don't 'ee go and set up for a boat-builder,
though," said the foreman pleasantly.  "Maister
will werrit if he do think the bread 'll be took out
of his mouth."

"No fear of that," replied Dick laughing.  "I
only want to build a boat for myself, to replace an
old one I lost."

"Well, I will say 'tis a right good notion to build
one yerself instead o' buyin' one, though 'twouldn't
do for we if everybody was so handy."

Dick's journeys to and fro between Polkerran and
St. Ives extended over ten days.  His absences
greatly puzzled Sam, but Dick gave no explanation
until he felt that he had learned enough to make a
start, and decided to visit the boat-builder's no more.
He was not so foolish as to suppose that he had
mastered the trade, but believed he knew enough to
enable him to construct a boat that would serve his
simple purpose.  Then one morning he set Sam to
collect a number of sound planks from the floors and
wainscoting in the unused rooms at the Towers, and
having borrowed from Petherick the tools necessary to
supplement those that Reuben had, he began his task.

Day by day for a fortnight the lads worked steadily,
using the dilapidated stables for their workshop.
Occasionally the Squire and Reuben stood by and
criticised; old Penwarden, too, looked in and offered
a more or less impracticable suggestion.  Once when
Dick was at a loss how to proceed, he trudged to
St. Ives to consult the foreman.

"What, Maister, has she sunk a'ready?" said the
man with twinkling eyes, as Dick entered.

He obtained the information he desired, and
within a few days afterwards the boat was finished.
Nobody at the Towers, except her makers, believed
that she would float.  How to get her down to the
water was at first a baffling problem.  She was too
heavy and cumbersome to be carried down the cliff-path
by the boys, and they would not seek assistance
from the villagers.  It was Mr. Carlyon that solved
the difficulty.  He suggested that the boat should
be conveyed on a farmer's wagon to a dell about
four miles northward, where a stream flowed into
the sea.  This was done early one morning, the
farmer, a friend of the Vicar's, being bound to
secrecy.  They launched the boat on the stream,
and Sam gave a whoop of delight on seeing that she
rode fairly upright.  With a couple of spare sculls
from their nook on the Beal, they pulled her out to
sea, and Dick was pardonably proud of his handiwork
when she proved quite seaworthy, if somewhat
lumbering.

"She's not very pretty, but she's strong," he said
to Sam, "and that is all we need trouble about."

During the weeks in which Dick had been thus
occupied, no further annoyance was suffered from
the villagers.  Sir Bevil's warning had apparently
taken effect.  Penwarden reported that two more
serious checks had been given to the smugglers.
Once they had been interrupted in the act of
running a cargo at Lunnan Cove, some miles to the
south, and a hundred tubs had been seized by
Mr. Mildmay.  A few days later, the cutter had gone in
chase of a lugger in a stiff gale, and the seamanship
of the smugglers being at least equal to that of the
King's men, the quarry had escaped.  But her crew,
not daring to run the cargo while the revenue
officers were on the alert, had sunk the tubs, which
were always carried ready slung to meet such an
emergency, in five fathoms of water beyond
St. Cuby's Cove.  In their hurry, however, the work
was not done so carefully as usual, with the result
that one of the tubs was chafed off the sinking rope,
drifted about, and next morning was descried by
Penwarden from the cliff.  He informed Mr. Mildmay.
The shallow water along the shore was
systematically searched, and the whole cargo was
hooked up by means of "creeps," as the grapnels
were called.  Rumour, reaching the Towers by way
of the Parsonage, said that on both these occasions
Tonkin was the freighter, so that his loss by the
successive failures was probably not far short of
£300.

Tidings came, also, by the local carrier, of renewed
activity on the part of the *Aimable Vertu* in the
Channel.  A revenue cruiser had fought an action
with her off the Lizard, and was worsted, her
commander being wounded, and the vessel only escaping
by running in shore to shallow water, where the
privateer could not follow.  The authorities, already
deeply incensed by the escape of Delarousse from
Plymouth, were furious at this recurrence of his
depredations, and had offered a high price for
information of his movements, and a still higher reward to
any officer who should capture him.

For a few days Dick laid up his new boat, when
fishing was done, in the mouth of the little stream
on which he had launched it, tramping back with
Sam over the four miles to the Towers.  But this
became irksome, and he tried to think of some means
of keeping the craft nearer home without running
the risk of its destruction by the smugglers.  After
a good deal of anxious consideration he hit upon the
idea of building a shed for it on the beach at the foot
of the cliff.

"Jown me if I see the good o' 't," said Sam,
when Dick explained his plan.  "They'll break into
the shed, or fire it, if they want to, and we'll lose our
boat and our labour too."

"But I've thought of a way of preventing that,
Sam.  They won't interfere with it in daylight: 'tis
only the night we need fear.  Well, we'll make 'em
give us warning of any trick they play."

"I don't see how, unless they be born fools."

"They're not fools: far from it: but they might
be a trifle sharper in the wits, perhaps.  If it comes
to scheming, I think we can beat 'em, Sam.  We'll
build the shed close under the house.  Now listen.
We'll make the door to open outwards, and tie a
strand of sewing thread to the bottom, running it
through hooks along the wall and out at the back of
the shed.  There we'll tie it to a fishing-line, and
round a pulley up to the cliff-top, taking care to keep
it off the rock by making it run through notches in
sticks of wood.  At the top we'll have another
pulley, and at the foot of the house wall another,
and so carry it into my bedroom.  There we'll fasten
it to a weight—a poker will do; which we'll sling up
beside the window.  We'll put a tea-tray underneath
it, d' you see? so that if the shed door is pulled
open the thread will break, the poker will fall, and
make such a clatter that we are bound to hear it all
over the house."

Sam broke into laughter.

"Ha! ha! it do mind me of the old 'ooman
and little crooked sixpence," he cried.  "Do 'ee mind,
Maister Dick?  'Cat began to kill the rat, rat began
to gnaw the rope,' and so on till th' old 'ooman got
home at last.  My life, 'tis a noble notion!  What
a headpiece you have got, to be sure!  But,
scrounch it all, won't they see the line?"

"I don't think so.  'Tis so much the colour of
the rock that it will escape notice."

"True.  But s'pose we do hear a clatter-bang.
That won't stop 'em from hauling out the boat,
and we couldn' get down the cliff in time to
save her."

"I'd thought of that.  We'll fix up a booby-trap
over the door."

"Never heerd o't.  What be a booby-trap?"

"'Tis a thing that Mr. Carlyon told me of, a trick
he used to play when he was a young fellow at
college.  You fix above the doorway something that
will tumble down when the door is opened, and
come plump on the head of any one entering.  That
will stagger them, and while they are recovering
their wits we shall have time to run down.  You
may be sure they'll run away before we get to
them, for if we recognize them they'll have Sir Bevil
to reckon with."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Sam.  "That 'ud be a
funny sight to see.  We'll do it, Maister Dick, and
'tis my wish I bean't too sleepy to tumble up when
they tries their tricks."

It was a full day's work, from daybreak to long
past sunset, to erect the shed from materials carefully
prepared beforehand.  Dick felt the necessity of
completing the apparatus before another day dawned,
lest their proceedings should be spied from a passing
boat and reported in the village before they were
ready.  He obtained permission from his father to
remain out, telling him frankly what his purpose
was, but without giving details, and toiled on, by the
light of a screened lantern, until the whole
contrivance wis finished.  The booby-trap consisted of
a pail nicely balanced on a bar running across the
shed, and filled with water deeply coloured with
indigo.  It was connected by a thread with a loose
board in the floor beneath, so that a trespasser
stepping across the threshold would snap the thread,
cause the pail to turn on its axis, and receive its
contents on his head.

"The parson used flour, he told me," said Dick,
"but 'tis too good to waste on those rascals."

"Ay, and a dousin' will make 'em cuss more,"
said Sam.  "Oh, 'twill grieve me tarrible if I be
asleep!"

Three days passed.  Apparently the shed had not
been discovered by the villagers.  The boys tested
their invention and found it successful.  They took
the boat out each morning, and restored it to its
place when the day's fishing was done, fastening the
door from the inside, connecting it with the booby-trap,
and leaving the shed by a small door, just large
enough to crawl through, at the back.

On the third evening Mr. Carlyon came to the
Towers to join the Trevanions in a game of whist,
as he did frequently during the winter months.  It
was a still, clear night, with a touch of frost in the
air; but the cold did not penetrate to the Squire's
room, where a blazing wood fire threw a rosy radiance
on the panelled walls, and woke smiling reflections
in the glasses and decanters that stood on a table
near that at which the party of four were absorbed
in their game.  The house was quiet; Reuben and
Sam had retired to rest, for the Vicar would need no
attendance when he mounted his cob to ride home.

The Squire was in the act of shuffling the pack,
when suddenly the silence of the house was shattered
by a tremendous crash in one of the rooms above.
Mrs. Trevanion pressed her hand to her side; the
Squire missed his cast, and let the cards fall to the
floor; Mr. Carlyon put down the glass which he had
just raised to his lips, so hastily that the fluid spilled
on the baize.  Dick sprang up.

"'Tis the alarm!" he cried.  "They are at my shed!"

He dashed out of the room, to meet Sam in shirt
and breeches tumbling down the stairs.  Dick seized
a cutlass hanging on the wall, Sam the parson's
riding-whip, and throwing open the door they sallied
out into the night.

"It dinged me out of a lovely dream," said Sam.
"Dash my buttons, 'twas a noble noise."

They scampered along the cliff to the zigzag path.
Meanwhile the Squire hurriedly explained the matter
to the astonished Vicar.

"Bless my life, I must go too," cried Mr. Carlyon.
"The impudence of the scoundrels!  Is this the
result of Sir Bevil's intervention?  Come along,
Squire; bring your pistols.  Man of peace as I am,
I will give you absolution if you wing one of those
fellows!"

The two hastened forth less than a minute after
the boys.  Both were active men, in spite of their
years, and they scrambled down the path with no
more stumbles than were excusable in elderly gentlemen
a little short in the wind.  Before they got to
the bottom they saw a boat just pulling off from the
shore, and the boys knee-deep in water, trying to
give a parting salutation with their weapons to the
disturbers of the peace.  Sam had the satisfaction of
hearing a bellow from the man in the stern of the
boat as the whip-thong slashed his face; but Dick's
cutlass was not long enough for effective use, and in
a few seconds the marauders were out of reach.

The four met on the beach and hastened up
towards the shed.  To their surprise the door was
only half open.

"They must have heard the noise," said Dick.
"My window is open.  I daresay they waited to see
what it meant, and then heard us coming down, for
when we got to the foot of the path they were
beginning to shove the boat off."

"The neatest contrivance I ever heard of.  I
congratulate you on your ingenuity," said the Vicar
heartily.  "But we may as well see that the villains
have done no mischief."

As he spoke he pulled the door fully open, and
before Dick could check him, set his foot on the
threshold.  Instantly there was a splash; the
worthy man gasped and spluttered, and came out
with a spring, shaking his head like a dog emerging
from a bath.

"God bless my soul!" cried the Squire, looking
with amazement at the dark shower pouring from his
friend on to the sand.  "What on earth is this?"

"Ho! ho!" laughed Sam, prancing with delight,
his veneration for the Church quite eclipsed by his
joy at a fellow mortal's misadventure.  "I ha' seed
it arter all.  Ho! ho!"

Dick, overwhelmed with dismay, shook Sam by the
arm and bade him be silent.  What excuse, what
reparation could he make to the venerable gentleman
who had suffered so untoward an accident?

"I didn't think—I tried to—I'm dreadfully sorry,
sir," he stammered.

"Ha! ha!" came the parson's rolling laugh.
"'Pon my life, he's an apt pupil, Squire.  The young
dog!  Ha! ha!"

"Explain this—this—" began the Squire angrily.

"This booby-trap, Squire," cried Mr. Carlyon.
"'Tis I am the booby.  I taught Dick, in a reckless
burst of confidence, how we young rantipoles at
Oxford used to deal with each other—and our tutors
too, I'm bound to say.  I wish I hadn't.  But, you
young rascal, I told you that we used flour: what
is this horrible stuff?"

"Only a solution of indigo, sir; it won't do you
any harm," replied poor Dick.

"Won't do me any harm?  Only make me black
and blue, eh?  Ha! ha!  I'm glad 'tis no worse.
But 'tis a thousand pities those ruffians escaped
the shower.  Well, well, the rain falls on the just
and the unjust, we're told, and——bless me, Squire,
it takes me back forty years, when we had rigged up
a trap for a freshman, and it toppled on the reverend
head of the dean himself.  Ha! ha!"

"Ha! ha!" laughed the Squire, his vexation
giving way to his sense of humour.

"Ho!  ho!" roared Sam.  "Drown me if it
bean't the——"

"Shut up!" growled Dick.  "Why must you
laugh at the Vicar in that idiotic way?"

"'Cos he laughs at hisself," said Sam, highly
aggrieved.  "I wouldn' laugh at him with his
nightgown on in church, not I; but when he be
just like a simple common man, daze me if I can
keep it in."

The two elders were now climbing the path.
Dick stayed to retie the thread, though he did not
expect that the marauders, after the alarm they had
had, would make a second attempt that night.
Having closed the door, he accompanied Sam up the
cliff, greatly relieved when he heard, far above, the
Vicar's hearty laugh, as he related to the Squire
sundry other pranks and escapades of his younger days.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Penwarden Disappears`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE TWELFTH


.. class:: center medium

   Penwarden Disappears

.. vspace:: 2

As Dick hoped, the scare given to the enemy by
his prompt sally from the Towers proved effectual;
no further attempt was made to interfere with the
boat.  Rumours of the contrivance for giving an
alarm spread among the villagers, and Mr. Carlyon,
without revealing his own misadventure, took care
to explain to Petherick, sexton, beadle, and constable,
that the intruders would have suffered material
damage if they had had the courage to enter the
shed.  Petherick duly reported this, as the parson
intended, adding on his own account that the
young monkeys had invented an instrument of
torture for all who dared to molest them.  The
parson's housekeeper discussed with Petherick a
strange stain upon her master's stock, and Petherick
himself, despatched one day to the Truro perruquier
with a parcel carefully tied, was amazed when the
tradesman, opening it in his presence, revealed a
wig, not iron grey, but mottled blue in colour.
These matters were a topic of conversation in
Polkerran for many a day, and there were some who
offered explanations, and some who shook their
heads and looked profoundly wise, but discreetly
held their tongues.  The truth was never known
outside the Towers, Dick threatening Sam with
excommunication if he breathed a word of it.

One Wednesday, early in December, the boys set
out a little before dawn to fish.  The air was cold
and misty; trickles of condensed moisture ran down
their faces and necks, and little pools formed on the
rims of their hats.  The exercise of rowing warmed
them, and the discomfort, always less to their
seasoned skins than it would have been to a townsman
and a landlubber, was forgotten altogether when
the fish rose freely to their bait.  They made a
good catch after two hours' work, and turned to row
back in order to carry the fish home in time for early
breakfast.

.. _`175`:

They had come nearly a mile from shore, and
were pulling hard, the wind blowing off the land
against them, when all at once, some distance astern,
there loomed out of the mist a three-masted vessel
of considerable size.

"Look, Sam," said Dick, "isn't that the same
craft we saw following the smack that night?"

"'Tis so," replied Sam; "the night Maister
John come home-along.  I said he landed from
the smack, you mind; you said 'a didn't; and I
don't care who the man is, but I know I be right."

"Pull away, Sam.  We don't want to be seen.
It may be the French privateer we've heard about,
and we ought to tell Mr. Mildmay or Penwarden."

"True, and there's money if she's catched.  Would
they gie us a bit o't, think 'ee?"

"I daresay.  There!  She has vanished into the
mist again.  Do you know if the cutter is in the
harbour, Sam?"

"She warn't yesterday.  Maister Mildmay is busy
down coast.  I'd liever old Joe got the money
than he."

They saw no more of the vessel, even from the
top of the cliff.  Mr. Trevanion was interested in
their news, and agreed that it should certainly be
imparted to Penwarden or Mr. Polwhele,
Mr. Mildmay being absent.

Dick remembered that the old exciseman had
probably been up all night.  He sympathised with
him in his arduous duty of watching all through
the long hours of darkness, in fair or foul weather,
frost or rain.  At dawn of day Penwarden was
accustomed to take a "watch below," as he called
it, until noon, priding himself on requiring no more
than four or five hours' sleep.  At noon an old
woman from the village came to get his dinner and
tidy up, leaving when her work was done, his other
meals being prepared by himself.  Dick decided not
to awaken Penwarden until he had had his sleep out,
but to seek Mr. Polwhele, whose house stood on the
cliff half-a-mile on the further side of the village.
Dick went there by a roundabout way, to avoid
meeting the fisher-people and their sour looks.
The riding-officer was much surprised at the news
he brought.

"'Tis a risky thing on the part of Delarousse, if
'tis indeed he," said Mr. Polwhele; "and why he
should come here I can't tell, for Polkerran is not
worth powder and shot."

"Maybe to arrange for running a cargo," said Dick.

"I don't think that, for 'tis whispered that the
folks here do not deal with him any longer.  I can't
think 'tis he, but I will run up my signal to warn
Mr. Mildmay, if he can see it through the mist.
Thank 'ee for the news.  Perhaps you will tell
Penwarden, and ask him to keep an eye lifting."

Dick promised to do so, and returned home.

Shortly before twelve, the time when Penwarden
was usually moving about again, Dick walked up to
the cottage to inform him of the strange vessel.  He
knocked at the door, but there was no answer.
Thinking that the old man was lying later than usual
after a tiring night's duty, Dick felt loth to rouse
him, and resolved to wait a while, walking up and
down before the cottage, beating himself for warmth's
sake.  Now and then he stopped to listen at the
door, but there was no sound from within, nor
indeed without, except the booming of the surf,
the whistle of the wind impinging on the cliff
edge, and the screams of gulls which had not yet
flown inland to seek their winter sustenance in the
neighbourhood of farms.  The mist cleared off, and
not a sign of the vessel was to be seen on the
horizon.

"Old Gammer Oliver is late, too," thought Dick.
"Perhaps Joe told her not to come at her usual time."

He took a book from his pocket, and read it, still
walking up and down.  But he soon tired of this;
the hour for the midday meal at the Towers was
drawing on; and he would have returned but for
his promise to Mr. Polwhele.

"I ought to have hammered hard on the door at
once," he said to himself.  "Tired as he must be,
he would not mind being disturbed in this case."

He shut up his book, slipped it into his pocket,
and strode briskly towards the cottage, about thirty
paces distant.  No smoke was rising from the
chimney; nothing was audible but the wind rustling
the leaves of a laurel bush, and causing the bare
tendrils of last year's creeper to scratch against the
wall.  The sudden scream of a gull wheeling its
flight above the roof made Dick start and look
round uneasily.  There was nothing living, on four
feet or on two, in sight.

He came to the door, and, hesitating no longer,
rapped smartly upon it.  Neither voice nor
movement answered him.  Again he knocked, with
greater energy, calling the old man by name.  The
perfect silence when his knuckles ceased their tattoo
alarmed him.  Joe always locked the door when he
left the cottage by day, and locked and bolted it
when he retired at night.  Still, it was a natural act
to turn the handle, and Dick, when he did so,
almost laughed, for the door opened, revealing the
dark little passage, on one side of which was the
bedroom, on the other the kitchen and sitting-room
in one.  Of course, the old fellow had gone out.

But as Dick stood on the threshold and his eyes
became accustomed to the dimness within, this
comforting reflection gave way to surprise and
apprehension.  Half-way down the passage Penwarden's
hat lay on the floor.  Near it was a bundle
of bulrushes which he had brought back from a
voyage in his sea-going days; it usually stood
against the wall beneath a portrait of Rodney.
Beyond, the glass of a case enclosing a stuffed
John-Dory was broken to splinters, which glinted from
the stone floor.  The passage presented a strange
contrast to its usual neat and tidy appearance.

"Joe!" Dick called.

His voice reverberated; there was no other sound.
He entered the passage and opened the door of the
kitchen.  It was empty; nothing was in disorder;
a kettle stood on the hob; on the table lay a
mug, a knife, and a plate holding a few crumbs of
bread, witnesses to the old man's supper.  Dick
turned about, crossed the passage, and halted for a
moment at the bedroom door, seized by the shaking
thought that Joe had been taken ill in the night—was
perhaps dead.  He called, rapped, and, with
quivering nerves, entered.  The blind was down, so
that he could scarcely see; but there was the bed,
empty, the bedclothes disturbed.  He pulled up
the blind.  The cold light of the winter sky flooded
the room, and he saw things that filled him with
alarm.  A chair was overturned; fragments of a
pipe and a tinder-box lay beside the bed; a thin
hair rug was creased into the shape of billows; on
one of the white deals was a dark red stain.  The
appearance of both room and passage pointed to a
struggle.  The stain was the fresh mark of blood.

What had become of the old man?  Dick felt the
answer to his unspoken question.  Excisemen had
many enemies; sometimes they lost their lives, not
merely in open fight with the smugglers, but by
insidious attack.  Mr. Mildmay had told of
ambushes, midnight assaults, torture, brutal murders.
Such incidents were almost unknown in the west
country; the fair fame of Cornishmen had not been
sullied as that of the men of Kent and Sussex had
been.  But what more likely than that the bitter
ill-feeling rife in the village, which had lately vented
itself against the inmates of the Towers, should now
have sought a new victim in Penwarden?  If the
smugglers were prepared to go such lengths against
the Trevanions, towards whom their hereditary
loyalty had for generations been akin to the Scottish
clansman's devotion to his chief, they would scarcely
be disposed to spare a humble old seaman, to whom
they attributed the heavy losses they had recently
suffered.

These thoughts ran through Dick's mind in a
moment.  That Penwarden had suffered violent
handling he could not doubt.  He must at once
report the disappearance.  He hurried from the
room, closing the door, and in the passage met
Gammer Oliver, as she was called, the old woman
who came daily from the village.

"Oh, Maister Trevanion!" she exclaimed, "you
did give me a turn."

"Mr. Penwarden is not here; something has
happened to him.  You don't know anything about him?"

"Do 'ee say it?  Lawk-a-deary, and me so late
and all!  My darter was took bad this morning,
or——"

"Do you know anything about him?" repeated Dick.

"Not a mossel, sir.  I hain't seed the gaffer since
I gied un his dinner yesterday.  Save us all!  What
a moil and muddle things be in!"

"Yes, I don't know what has happened.  Tidy
up, and bring the door-key to the Towers.  I am
going now."

He hastened home, and told the Squire what he
had discovered, and what his suspicions were.
Mr. Trevanion, often supine and sluggish in matters
concerning himself, was energetic enough when he
heard of wrong or injustice suffered by others.

"This is scandalous!" he exclaimed.  "Do you
go at once and find Mr. Polwhele, Dick.  I will
hurry to the parson.  Stay, I'll give Sam a note for
Sir Bevil; we must raise a hue and cry after the
old man.  Where is Mildmay, I wonder?"

"Mr. Polwhele was going to signal to him, sir,"
said Dick.

"That's right.  He must watch the coast.  I've
heard of the wretches shipping off to France
preventive men who make themselves troublesome.
'Tis ten to one they will serve Penwarden so; that
vessel you saw may have come for that purpose."

Within a few minutes the three active members
of the household had gone their several ways.  Dick
hastened for the second time to see the riding-officer.
As he went he came to a resolution.  The smugglers,
it was clear, were determined on pursuing their
policy of persecution.  All who opposed them, or
whom they supposed to be their opponents, would
have to reckon with their remorseless animosity,
which might express itself in open violence or deeds
of stealth as necessity demanded.  It was to be war,
and, as events were shaping themselves, war between
the village and the Towers.  Well, the war should
be fought out.  The quarrel had been forced on the
Trevanions; they had not willingly departed from
their neutrality; but matters had now gone so far
that to remain neutral was impossible, and Dick
resolved to take once for all the side of the law.
He anticipated some difficulty in bringing his father
to adopt the same attitude; but at the present
moment the Squire was so indignant with the
smugglers that, even if he was not ready to throw
himself into active opposition to them, he might not
forbid Dick to do so.  Feeling that at such a crisis
all quiet work at his books was impossible, Dick
determined to beg Mr. Carlyon to release him, and to
devote himself heart and soul to the contest, whether
of wits or weapons.  The first object must be the
rescue of Joe Penwarden.

Mr. Polwhele was still at home.

"This is a new thing, 'pon my life," he said,
when Dick had told him his tidings.  "Till now
the villains have been only on the defensive; to
take the offensive means there's a new spirit working
in 'em.  D'you think, now, that your father is
right, and John Trevanion is the man behind?"

"I don't want to say what I think, Mr. Polwhele,"
replied Dick.  "Whether he is or not,
we must put a stop to it.  I can't do much, but
what I can do I will."

"I'm glad to hear it.  The curious thing is that
John Trevanion has but lately been here.  One of
the fishers had told him of the strange vessel, and
he came for the same purpose as you, to ask me to
signal to Mr. Mildmay.  He said it was scandalous
that the Frenchman should be allowed to cruise
at large."

"Do you think she came to ship Penwarden
away, sir?  That is my father's idea."

"'Tis a notion, now, but not likely, unless John
Trevanion came here to throw me off the scent.
You saw no small boat pulling to the ship, did you?"

"No, sir."

"Then I think the Squire is wrong.  Now,
seemingly, Mr. Mildmay has not seen my signal,
but he must be somewhere off the coast.  As soon
as 'tis dark I will show a light with my telescope
lantern; that will fetch him; and if you are ready
to join hands with us, I will bring him to the
Towers and we'll hold a council of war.  Will the
Squire agree to it?"

"I don't know.  I'll ask him, and if you'll meet
me at six o'clock on the bridge yonder, I will tell
you what he says."

When the Squire returned from his visit to the
Parsonage, Dick opened his mind to him.  At first
Mr. Trevanion shrank from definitely committing
himself to the cause of the revenue officers, but when
Dick pointed out that his position could scarcely be
worse than it was, and that the Trevanion influence
might still have some weight with the better-disposed
among the village folk, he consented to the
riding-officer's proposal.

"The vicar is coming over this evening," he
said.  "We shall at any rate have all the wisdom of
the parish."

At half-past six there met in the Squire's room,
Mr. Mildmay, the riding-officer, Mr. Carlyon, and
Dick.  They drew their chairs to the fire; the elder
men lit their churchwarden pipes, and, with glasses
of steaming toddy at their elbows, proceeded to
discuss the situation.

"I have a note from Sir Bevil," said the Squire.
"He is sending to Truro for assistance.  What shape
that may take I don't know."

"The shape of a constable or two, probably," said
Mr. Polwhele, "and if they are no better than
Petherick, they won't help us much."

"Petherick shall cry the village to-morrow," said
the Vicar.  "Being a justice as well as parson, I have
written out a proclamation, summoning all good and
true men to give information that will lead to the
discovery of Penwarden, dead or alive."

"I don't believe they'd murder him," said
Mr. Mildmay, "or they wouldn't take the trouble to
spirit him away.  A crack on the head would be a
much simpler matter."

"What do you suppose is their object in
kidnapping him?" asked the Vicar.

"Either to hold him while they run a specially
valuable cargo, or to ship him to France and keep
him permanently out of their way.  A fool's trick;
for he's bound to be replaced, though we'd find it
hard to get a better man, old as he is."

"And foolish in another way," added the
riding-officer.  "They ought to know that a deed of that
kind will only stir up the rest of us.  I wouldn't
give much for their chances of running a cargo yet
awhile."

"Nor for shipping him," said Mr. Mildmay.  "I'll
swear they haven't done it yet.  My boats were up
and down the coast all last night.  One of them spied
that rascally privateer putting in towards St. Cuby's
Cove in the mist this morning, but she sailed away,
and though I gave chase, she got off.  To-night
we'll have the boats patrolling for miles; I defy 'em
to slip through us."

"When did they seize him, d'you suppose?"
asked the Squire.

"In the early morning, I think, Father," said Dick,
"before it was light.  The blood stain was quite
fresh.  They must have hidden him somewhere;
they wouldn't carry him away in the daylight, in case
some one saw them."

"That wouldn't trouble them, bless you," said
Mr. Mildmay.  "All Polkerran and most of the
folk around are hand-in-glove with them.  They
could count on the silence of everybody but a few
ranters and psalm-singers, who would either be abed
and asleep, or going about their business."

"I don't agree with you, Mildmay," said the
Squire.  "They would have to pass this house on
the way to the village, and they know very well
that Dick and young Sam are early birds; they
wouldn't risk meeting them.  No; 'twas done in
the dark, depend on it."

"That might be if they took him to the village,
but we don't know that," retorted Mr. Mildmay.
"No doubt there are any number of underground
cellars and secret passages in the village: 'twas in
some such place that fellow Delarousse was hidden
while the dragoons were searching the inn, you may
be sure.  But those are not the only possible
hiding-places.  What with nooks, caves, and adits
in the abandoned mines, we might search for a
month of Sundays and not find the poor fellow."

"But they won't hold him long, surely," said Dick.
"What a trouble it would be to guard him and feed
him!"

"True; they would expect to be able to ship him
soon.  If they are planning a run, and find we're
too watchful for them, I'll be bound they'll let him
loose before long, and we'll find him one fine
morning back again."

"Dick speaks of guarding and feeding," said
Mr. Carlyon.  "May not that give us a clue?  It
seems probable, as Mr. Mildmay suggests, that he is
not in the village.  If he is elsewhere, somebody
must leave the village to carry food to him, and a
vigilant watch would detect the fellow."

"Bless my life, parson," said Mr. Polwhele, "you
don't know these rascals.  They're as wary as otters
and as slippery as eels.  I'll warrant they'd slip us
in broad daylight, and as to the darkness of night,
why, a regiment of soldiers wouldn't be large
enough to net 'em."

"Well, to be practical," said the Squire.  "You,
Vicar, as a justice, can give Mr. Polwhele a warrant
of search.  You may unearth him in the village, and
I should begin with the inn; Doubledick's name
suits him.  With the coast closely watched by
Mr. Mildmay's men, the kidnappers cannot ship
him.  Sir Bevil will raise the hue and cry in the
neighbourhood inland, and 'tis such a serious matter
that I doubt whether any of the yeomen would
connive at it.  The name of *habeas corpus* would
scare them out of their wits.  I'm inclined to think
with Mr. Mildmay that the rascals will let him loose
in a day or two when they see what a stir they have
made; but of course we must not rely on that, but
do our best to ferret him out."

"Very well summed up, Squire," said the Vicar.
"We cannot do more to-night; and, as 'tis not late,
perhaps you and these gentlemen would favour me
with a rubber.  Polwhele trumped my trick last
time," he added, under his breath.

"With all my heart," cried the Squire.  "Dick,
bring the cards, and ask Reuben to fry some pilchards.
All work and no play, Mr. Mildmay, you know——"

The gentlemen were nothing loth to spend an
hour or two in this way.  They had supper at eight;
the officers then left to attend to their nocturnal
duties; and as Mr. Carlyon remained to play piquet
with the Squire, Dick went to bed early, resolving
to take some independent steps in the morning.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Cross-Currents`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH


.. class:: center medium

   Cross-Currents

.. vspace:: 2

Polkerran next day was the stage upon which a
series of dramatic incidents were enacted, pure
comedy to the spectators, but with a possible tragedy
behind the scenes.

At an early hour a mob of boys and girls, with a
sprinkling of aged folk verging on second childhood,
followed at the heels of Petherick, the constable, as
he shambled through the streets, stopping at the
corners to ring his bell, shout "Oyez! Oyez!"
and mumble the formal words of Mr. Carlyon's
proclamation.  He pretended to read them from the
sheet of double foolscap that he held at arm's length
before him, but being perfectly illiterate, he in reality
recited them by heart, the Vicar having devoted two
solid hours since dawn in drumming them into the
man's head.  His duty thus religiously performed,
Petherick repaired to the tap-room of the Five
Pilchards, where he discoursed for a time on *habeas
corpus, felo de se*, and other magical prescriptions,
relieving his dryness so frequently with rum-hot
that he was at length overcome with emotion, and
mingled his liquor with his tears.

Two hours later, Sir Bevil Portharvan rode down
with Mr. John Trevanion, a brother magistrate, and
a sheriff's officer from Truro, intending to harangue
the populace and impress them with the majesty and
terror of the law.  But finding that no audience
gathered about him except the young and old
children aforesaid, a few pallid indoor workmen, and
a number of women accompanied by squalling infants
in arms—the able-bodied men being, curiously
enough, otherwise engaged—he abandoned that
part of the programme, and contented himself with
solemnly superintending the affixing to the inn-door
of a bill, headed with the royal arms, which he
had ordered overnight to be printed in Truro.

At noon came Mr. Mildmay, Mr. Polwhele, a
posse of excisemen, and a soldier on furlough, who,
with the authority of a warrant signed by the Vicar,
proceeded to make a thorough search of the houses,
beginning with the inn itself.  They descended to
the cellars, ascended to the lofts; rummaged in
clothes presses; turned down beds; rapped at walls
for hollow sounds indicating secret passages or
receptacles; peeped into horse-troughs, cow-byres,
and pigsties; poked in coppers and washtubs; in
short, worked themselves into a fine perspiring heat
and the village folk into an itching frenzy by the
conscientious thoroughness of their inquisition.
Some of the men who had been undiscoverable by
Sir Bevil were now energetically employed, in
advance of the search party, in removing bales, kegs,
packets, and canisters, so that when Mr. Mildmay
appeared at one end of a street, these interesting
objects were collected at the other; and when this
end in turn was visited, the barefooted carriers of
the articles in question slipped back and replaced
them in their former hiding-places.

While Mr. Mildmay and his assistants, after three
hours' unremitting toil, stood mopping their brows
and venting their honest opinion of the Polkerran
folk, John Trevanion rode down the hill.  He
reined up when he reached the group, and greeted
the discomfited representatives of the law.

"How d'ye do, gentlemen?" he cried.  "Have
you had any success?"

"Confusion seize 'em, Mr. Trevanion!" replied
the lieutenant.  "We've not seen a sign of the old
man, nor discovered a single cask or bundle of
contraband.  You'd think 'twas the most innocent,
duty-paying village in the three kingdoms."

"That's most unfortunate.  As to the contraband—well,
you know, we all like to get our goods as
cheap as we may, I don't disguise it; but old
Penwarden is another story.  Have you no notion
where he is?"

"No more than you, Mr. Trevanion," said
the riding-officer, throwing a keen glance on the
horseman.

"Then you must be blank indeed," said Trevanion
with an easy laugh.  "'Tis my belief there's a great
deal too much fuss made about old Joe's disappearance.
Surely nobody in Polkerran would wish to
injure so ancient an institution.  'Tis a prank,
depend upon it, and when the prankers have achieved
their object—you and I can guess what that
is—they'll let him loose as sound as a bell."

Trevanion's debonair frankness disarmed Mr. Mildmay,
to whom he was a comparative stranger.
It seemed ridiculous that the Squire should harbour
such unworthy suspicions of his cousin.

"By the way," continued Trevanion, "I am glad
I met you.  I am having a few friends in on
Saturday night—a bit of a randy; that's our name for it
here—and I shall be delighted if you will join us.
I haven't seen so much of you as I should like;
this mine I'm starting has kept me busy."

"I'm much obliged to you," said Mr. Mildmay,
"but I fear——"

"Oh, I know what you would say.  But your
cutter can spare you for an hour or two.  Not for
the world would I hinder your duties; to catch that
villain Delarousse in particular would be worth a
good deal to you; but 'tis dark early; the hour
fixed is six; and I won't say a word if you must
leave us before we are ripe."

"Well, I will come.  Thank you."

"And you too, Mr. Polwhele?  The service of
your country can spare you for a little while?"

"To be sure.  I'll come too, Mr. Trevanion;
'twill be like old times, indeed."

The riding-officer's assent was much more hearty
than Mr. Mildmay's, which was perhaps a little
surprising in view of the suspicions he had confessed
to on the previous day in speaking to Dick.

"That's right," said Trevanion.  "I shall be
glad to welcome you.  The hour is six—did I name
it?  I hope Penwarden will be found by that time;
you'll feel easier, I dare say.  Good-bye, then."

When he had ridden away, Mr. Mildmay dismissed
the underlings and went off to have a meal
with the riding-officer.

"That fellow's too free-and-easy to be the villain
the Squire thinks him," said Mr. Mildmay, as they
walked southward out of the village.

Mr. Polwhele smiled.

"I'm beginning to think he's the cleverest
free-trader the duchy ever bred," he remarked.

"My dear fellow!" expostulated the lieutenant.

"I had my suspicions; this invitation has
convinced me," replied Mr. Polwhele.  "Bless my life,
to think you are so simple, Mildmay!  Don't you
see the game?  They've put Penwarden out of the
way.  What does that mean?  A big run, as sure
as I'm alive.  But we two are obstacles; they blink
at kidnapping us, but they do better.  They invite
us to a randy, and while we are making merry they
slip inshore, run their cargo, liberate Penwarden, and
laugh at us for a pair of jackasses."

"That's nonsense, Polwhele.  The cutter will be
out, though I'm not on it.  Besides, didn't he say
we can leave when we like?"

"Yes, with the belief that when he has us there,
warmth, good liquor, and pleasant company will
prove more attractive than hunting rascals in the
cold."

"Why did you accept, then?"

"First, to look after you, Mildmay.  Second, to
keep my eyes open.  Third, to make Trevanion
think I don't suspect him, so that the smugglers
may go forward with their plans.  He is playing a
deep game, I'm sure of it."

"That's detestably unjust, Polwhele," said Mr.
Mildmay, with some heat.  "Give a dog a bad
name, and——I tell you what.  We will both leave
at nine; not a minute later.  That's several hours
before any run took place that ever I heard of.
Nine it shall be, and call me jackass if the shore's
not as quiet all night as the churchyard."

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile, what had Dick been doing?

At the hour when Mr. Carlyon was driving the
terms of his proclamation into Petherick's reluctant
skull, Dick rose from bed, and taking the key of
Penwarden's cottage, brought to the Towers by
Gammer Oliver, went up the cliff to make a more
thorough examination of the premises than he had
made on the previous day.  He wished that he had
thought of doing so before, for there had not only
been rain in the night which would help to obliterate
any traces that the kidnappers might have left on the
ground, but the neighbourhood had been visited
by inquisitive boys, dairymaids, farm-hands, and
idle folk from the village, who tramped round the
cottage, gazed at the door, and peered in at the
windows, leaving innumerable footprints on the soil.

Dick was puzzled to think how Joe's captors
had obtained entrance to the cottage.  It was not
by the front door, unless Penwarden had carelessly
left it open; its timbers were sound and the lock
unbroken; not by the chimney, which was too
narrow to admit anything larger than a pigeon.
They might have gone through the garden and
forced the back door; though they would surely
have tried to effect an entrance quietly, while the
old man lay asleep.

Arriving at the cottage, Dick unlocked the door,
entered, and went through the passage to the back
door, which opened on a tiny garden.  The lock had
not been tampered with.  Penwarden was very
proud of his garden, devoting many hours a day in
the summer, when his duties were light, to the
cultivation of peonies, fuchsias, nasturtiums, and
other flowering plants, together with onions,
artichokes, and vegetable marrows.  The flowers were
on one side of a narrow path, the vegetables on the
other.  There was a small gate in the rear fence.
At this time of year the ground was bare, Penwarden
finding nothing to do but a little rake and spade
work.

A glance at the path apprised Dick that the captive
had been carried out this way.  The pebbles were
disturbed; parts of the boxwood borders were
trampled down, and over the edge there were prints
of heavy boots on the brown earth.  Dick examined
the kitchen window.  The explanation was at once
clear to him.  There were deep scratches on the sill
and the woodwork; the conclusion was irresistible;
the kidnappers had climbed into the kitchen and
gained the bedroom before Penwarden was aware of
their presence.  That they had carried their victim
out by the back door seemed to show that at any
rate they had taken him inland, and not down to the
shore.  How the front door came to be unlocked
was a puzzling circumstance, since they had clearly
neither entered nor come out that way.

Dick went again to the back, and sought to trace
the footsteps beyond the gate; but the grass there
was so beaten down by the rain and the feet of the
curious idlers, that the most careful investigation
must prove fruitless.  He returned into the cottage,
to make a thorough search of the bedroom.  Gammer
Oliver had made the bed, straightened the rug, set
the chair on its legs, and washed over the stained
plank.  It seemed probable that his instruction to
her to tidy up had robbed him of any chance of
making a discovery.  But Dick resolved not to err
again through over-haste, and, the small window
admitting little light, he found a candle, lit it, and
began to prowl methodically round the room.  For
some time his search met with no reward, but all at
once, catching a glint of light reflected from some
object on the floor in the angle between a
grandfather's clock and the fireplace, he stooped, and
picked up a large steel button, to which hung by the
broken threads a torn scrap of blue cloth.

Dick felt a thrill of excitement.  Penwarden had
not been carried away unresisting.  He knew that
already by the signs of struggle formerly observed.
The severed button was an additional proof.  No
doubt it had been wrenched off in the fight—from
whose coat?  Not from Joe's; his buttons were the
regulation brass buttons of the Government service.
Many of the fishers had steel buttons on their winter
coats, and one button was like another.  But it
occurred to Dick that the particular garment which
had lost this button might not yet have been repaired,
and he wondered whether the Vicar's search-warrant
would justify Mr. Mildmay in demanding that all
the blue coats in the village should be spread out on
the beach for examination.  The absurdity of the
idea struck him at once.  Of course the very
garment that was wanted would not appear.  But he
thought of a better way—one that would arouse no
suspicion, though it might prove impossible of
execution.  He would go down into the village and
scrutinise the clothes of all the men he met.  The
owner of the lost button was probably one of the
most active of the smugglers, and not an indoor
man, so that there was some chance of meeting him
in the street, on the beach, or on the jetty.

He set off at once.  On the way he met Sir Bevil
and other horsemen riding from the Dower House,
where John Trevanion had entertained them after
the futile ceremony in the village.  The fishers,
who were not to be seen when Sir Bevil was burning
to address them, now stood smoking at the corners,
in front of the inn, on the jetty, and elsewhere.
They appeared to be very much amused.  Some of
them scowled at Dick as he passed; others laughed
and spat; one asked him with an oath what he
was staring at.  Dick was seldom in the village
now, and the hostility of the folk's attitude might
have made his heart sore had he not been hardened
to it.

He walked along as unconcernedly as he could,
standing for a few moments to watch some fishers
mending nets on the beach, and lingering until their
movements brought the front of their coats into
view.  Some coats were brown, some blue; some
had steel buttons, others bone.  Not one was lacking.
Presently he came to the jetty, where Isaac Tonkin,
sitting on an upturned tub, was superintending some
repairs to the seine-net in his lugger.  He wore a
blue coat, but his arms were folded, one hand
holding his pipe to his mouth.  He threw one
glance at Dick, but made no movement, and
thenceforth ignored him.

Dick strolled up and down.  Excitement utterly
possessed him; to his fancy Tonkin was deliberately
concealing two out of his four buttons.  The two
visible were of steel.  What could he do to make
the man unclasp?  But it was not necessary to
practise any wile.  The simplest causes effected
what he desired.

"Feyther," called Jake Tonkin from the lugger,
"fling us a quid o' yer bacca."

"'Tis bad for young stummicks," said the father.
"Howsomever, here 'ee be."

His right arm fell as he sought his pocket: the
front of his coat was revealed; one button was
missing.

It is probable that Dick, but for his long waiting
and his excitement, would not have yielded to
impulse.  But as Tonkin threw the tobacco into the
lugger, Dick stepped up to him, and, holding out
the incriminating button, said:

"This is yours, I believe."

Tonkin stared at him for an instant, blew a cloud
from his lips, and held out his hand for the button
as if to examine it.  In anticipatory triumph Dick
handed it to him.

"Did I hear 'ee say as this button do belong to
me?" asked the man in a curiously quiet voice.

"Yes, I did say so."

"Well, drown me if I want it," and with a flick
between his forefinger and thumb he sent it skimming
through the air.  It fell into the sea a dozen
yards away.

Dick's cheeks flamed with rage at his stupidity in
allowing himself to be outwitted.  He had had
in his possession the sole piece of evidence against
the kidnappers, and now it was lost on the sandy
bottom of the harbour.  Shaken out of his
self-control, he said hotly:

"'Twas you that kidnapped Penwarden.  Don't
think you will escape.  There'll be an end to this
villainy."

"Go and inform, then, you cussed young slip of
a rotted old tree.  'Tis not the first time, neither,
you dirty young whelp."

A burst of laughter from the lugger brought Dick
to his sober senses.  Disdaining to contradict the
aspersion, he turned abruptly on his heel, tingling
with fury at his own indiscretion.  Jibes and jeers
pursued him as he walked towards the homeward
road; these stung him less than the knowledge that
by his own folly he had thrown away a chance of
helping Penwarden.

Gloomy thoughts kept him company as he toiled
up the hill.  Nor was he cheered by the air of
malignant triumph manifest on Doubledick's fat
face, when, half-way up the hill, he met the
inn-keeper waddling down.  In imagination he heard
the gleeful chuckles with which Doubledick would
learn of his discomfiture.  After the heroic resolution
he had lately come to, it was a sorry thing to have
been worsted in the first encounter.

Walking more rapidly on the level road past the
Dower House, at a cursory glance to the left he
saw a short, thickset form scramble over the fence
that bounded the premises, and hasten furtively in
the direction of the Towers.  The sight struck him
with surprise and wrath at once, for the slinking
figure was undoubtedly that of Sam Pollex.  Being
himself partially concealed by the hedge, he thought
it probable that Sam had not seen him, so, hurrying
along, he turned as soon as possible into the grounds
of the Towers, and came face to face with Sam as the
boy arrived at a little wicket-gate.

"What do you mean by it?" he demanded
angrily, holding the gate so that Sam could not pass
through.

Sam blushed and dropped his eyes, looking
flustered and perturbed.

"Were you not bidden never to go there again?"
Dick continued.  "Didn't I say I'd break your
head for you if you disobeyed?"

"Iss, you did so," said Sam ruefully.  "Ah, well,
you'm better do it and get it over."

"What were you doing there?" said Dick, still
holding the gate.

Sam looked sidelong, shuffled his feet, then, as
with a great effort, replied:

"I didn' go to sell eggs, nor nawthin' o' that sort.
If you must haul it out of a poor feller, I rambled
there to——"

"Well?"

"To see maidy Susan; now I've said it."

"Then you're a silly ass.  She's years older than
you.  What does a maid of twenty want with a boy
of sixteen?"

"Twenty she is, and sixteen be I, but I've a deal
more wisdom in my noddle than she, arter all.  She's
a simple soul about pilchurs, and night-lines, and
buildin' boats, and all sorts o' famous things I've
knowed since I wer table-high, and she do have a
tarrible thirst for high knowledge.  She've a clever
little head-piece, too, for when I wer tellin' to she how
pretty 'tis to see a otter divin' for fish, who should
come up-along but Doubledick——"

"Did he see you?" interrupted Dick.

"I wer just agoin' to tell 'ee.  No, 'a didn't see
me, 'cos I slipped behind Maidy, she being well
growed, and says I, 'That feller is my 'nation enemy,'
says I, and afore I knowed wheer I wer, she whisked
me into a little small cupboard place wi' coats and
boots hangin' on the wall, and commanded me, in a
feelin' whisper, to bide theer till she toled me out.
Drown me if I didn' hear Doubledick go shailin'
past wi' Maister John, and then there comed a
rumblin' through the wall, and I knowed they two
was a-talkin'."

"Did you hear what they said?" asked Dick eagerly.

"Iss, I did.  I hadn' nawthin' better to do, so I
put my ear to the wall.  Iss, I heerd a thing or two."

"Well, what did you hear?  Anything about
Penwarden?"

Sam had gradually pushed open the gate, and was
now walking beside Dick.

"Not a word.  I wer so flambustered in bein'
poked in that hencoop of a place, and thinkin' what
they'd do to me if so be they catched me, that 'twas
all mixed up, and I couldn' tell A from B."

"But think: you must have heard something
clearly.  You didn't lose all your wits, did you?"

"Well, I did hear Maister John say wind was
steady, and 'a hoped 't 'ud hold fair for business."

"Yes: what then?"

"Don't 'ee bustle me; then maybe I'll mind o'
more.  Iss, I mind Doubledick said, 'Hee! hee!'
says he; 'if it do hold for another forty-eight hours,'
says he;—and be-jowned if I could hear any more
o' that piece of reckonin', my poor heart was
a-strummin' so."

"Confound your poor heart!" cried Dick.  "Do
pull yourself together.  It may mean salvation to Joe."

Sam scratched his head.

"If you'd only been theer instead o' me!" he
muttered.  "Ah!  'Twas carriers.  Iss: Maister
John axed if 'twas settled about carriers.  'A round
score,' says Doubledick, if 't wasn't two; 'good
fellers all; no wamblin', slack-twisted cripple-toes
for this job,' says he."

"What job?"

"That I can't say.  But Zacky Tonkin was in it;
iss; gie me a minute for rec'lection; iss.  Doubledick
says, 'Zacky be sour as a green apple.'  'Ha! ha!'
laughs Maister John, ''a don't like playin'
second fiddle,' says he, which is a passel o' nonsense,
'cos Zacky never played on fiddle, fust, second, nor
last either, all his born days, that I do know.  ''Tis
for 'ee to keep un quiet!' says Maister John.
'He hev his uses, but hain't got a mossel of brains.
You've got enough for two, Doubledick,' says he."

Dick was becoming impatient.  The conversation
as reported was not very enlightening, and surely
Doubledick had not visited the Dower House to
discuss such trivialities.  But Dick had learnt his
lesson; he would not err again by being over-hasty;
so he schooled himself to endure the slow trickle
of information as it oozed from Sam's reluctant
memory.

"Didn't they name Penwarden at all?" he asked.

"Never heerd un.  The only other names I
heerd wer Tom Pennycomequick and Jimmy
Nancarrow."

"Ah! what about them?"

Sam reflected.

"Tom Pennycomequick and Jimmy Nancarrow,"
he repeated, as if the repetition would recall the
connection.  "Iss; I mind o't.  Says Maister John,
'Who be on guard to-day?'"

"'On guard!'  Not 'on the watch'?"

"That's what 'a meant, seemingly, but 'a said 'on
guard.'  'Tom Pennycomequick and Jimmy
Nancarrow,' says Doubledick.  There was summat
about 'bogeys,' if I could only mind.  Iss, fay; I've
got un.  'Two,' says Maister John, 'what for?'
'Hee! hee!' goes Doubledick; ''cos they was
afeard to go alone,' says he.  'Afeard o' their own
bogeys,' says Maister John, and then they both
laughed so hearty that daze me if I didn't bust out
too, and had to clap the tail of a coat in my jaws so
they shouldn' hear.  'T'ud ha' been gashly if
they found me, and drawed out o' me how maidy
Susan had put me theer, and—well, you bean't
a-hearkenin', so I'll say no more."

In truth, Dick's ears were closed; his mind was
rapidly piecing together the fragmentary items of
information Sam had given him.  They had now
reached the Towers; Dick went straight to his
bedroom, and sat with his elbow on the window-sill,
looking out over the grey sullen sea, and striving to
bind together these separate strands.  The outcome
of his meditation was as follows:

Something important was to happen within forty-eight
hours, and it depended on the weather.  It
was now midday on Friday; what was to be done
would be done before midday on Sunday.  There
had been mention of carriers—that implied a
smuggling run.  Penwarden's name had not been
mentioned, but two men had been said to be on
guard.  Over whom or what?  Not over smuggled
goods, for the run had not yet taken place.  Not
over the revenue officers, for the phrase would then
have been "on the watch" or something similar.
The word "guard" would naturally be used in
connection with a prisoner; that prisoner must be
Penwarden: where was he?  The men on guard
were afraid; no doubt the place chosen for his
imprisonment was a lonely spot, not in the village,
but somewhere remote from the scene of the
impending operations, unless, indeed, it was intended
to ship him to France in the lugger that brought the
cargo.  In that case he would probably be in some
secure nook near the shore.

Perplexed, Dick wondered whether he had at last
discovered a clue.  It was at least worth while to
follow it up.  The men whose names had been
mentioned were well known to him.  Pennycomequick
was a cobbler, Nancarrow a farmer, whose
holding was situated about three miles away on the
moor.  To make direct inquiries might awaken
suspicion: how could he discover where they
were?  An idea struck him.  No doubt their guard
would be relieved.  Trevanion had been surprised
to learn that two were on duty; the task, then, was
usually undertaken by one.  Was it possible to find
out if any one left the village secretly during the
day?

Suddenly a simple stratagem occurred to him.
He took up an old, worn pair of boots, ran
downstairs, and called Sam.

"Take these down to Pennycomequick's, and
tell him to sole them, and to put a good iron tip on
the heels.  If he is not there, ask when he will be
back.  Be sure not to forget that, and be as quick as
you can."

"Iss, I woll," said Sam, "for I do have a
hankerin' arter dinner."

He hurried away, and returned when Dick was
half through his midday meal.  Dick heard the boy
clumping into the house, but did not go to him at
once, being disinclined to enter into explanations
with his parents at this stage.  He left the table as
soon as he could, and found Sam busy with
dumpling and gravy in the kitchen.

"Well, Sam?" he said.

"Mistress commands me not to speak wi' my
mouth full," mumbled the boy.  "Now I can tell
'ee," he went on after a few moments.  "Pennycomequick
bean't to home.  He be gone to Trura
to buy leather."

"When will he be back?"

"'Them above alone knows,' says the woman
when I axed her.  'He said four, but what
Pennycomequick says, and what he do, be as far
apart as from here to nowhere.'  If that be all you
want to know, Maister Dick, I'll continny work on
this noble pudden."

Dick was satisfied.  He returned to his room,
and, about three o'clock, mounted to the roof of one
of the towers from which the house took its name.
With him he carried an excellent spy-glass which
remained to the Squire from his seafaring days.
From this lofty eyrie a view could be obtained for
miles around.  If the cobbler and the farmer were
on guard together, it was likely that they would be
relieved together, and they could hardly return, the
one to the village, the other to his farm on the
moor, without coming at some part of their journey
within range of vision.  Dick felt a momentary
damping of the spirits when it occurred to him that
Penwarden's place of concealment might be some
nook below the cliffs.  In that case the sentries
would be changed by boat from the harbour, and he
would see nothing of them.  But even in that case
the farmer must ascend the hill and cross the moor,
and though he might be concealed at some portions
of his road by trees and bushes, he must at length
cross open country.  Behind the parapet Dick could
watch unseen, and he settled himself to wait in
patience.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Doubledick on Duty`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH


.. class:: center medium

   Doubledick on Duty

.. vspace:: 2

It was a chill, dreary afternoon.  The sky weighed
upon earth and sea like a canopy of lead.  The
wind moaned and sighed about the roof; the trees
seemed to shiver in their nakedness.  From over
the cliff came the hollow murmur of the breakers.
Northward Penwarden's cottage stood lonely and
forlorn; eastward stretched the dark gloomy waste
of moorland; southward the village huddled in its
cleft as if for warmth, a few thin streamers of smoke
flying inland on the wind.  Nearer the Dower House
a score of men were engaged in erecting sheds and
machinery for Trevanion's miners, and the sound of
their voices came in mournful cadence to Dick's ears.

For some time there was scarcely a movement on
the face of the country.  Presently a carrier's cart
rumbled down the road, stopping at the Dower
House.  Through his spy-glass Dick saw Susan's
bright face smiling as she spoke to the carrier, who
conveyed into the house boxes, baskets, and packets
of various shapes and sizes.  Dick remembered that
on the morrow Trevanion was entertaining a party
of friends to celebrate the reopening of the mines.
He was miserably conscious of the contrast between
his cousin's lot and his own.  Why, he asked himself,
had Fate dealt so hardly with the Trevanions of
the Towers?  The cart moved on, no doubt to the
Five Pilchards, where the carrier would refresh
himself before starting on his return journey to
Truro.  The workmen shouldered their tools and
tramped after it, and when they had disappeared the
land was left in its former immobility.

At length, as the gloom was deepening with the
dusk, Dick descried, some distance to his left, two
figures moving slowly along, one towards him on
the high road, the other away from him, crossing a
ploughed field towards a footpath that led from the
road, some distance behind, across the moor.  The
sky was so lowering that Dick could not at first,
even through his glass, identify the men.  The
receding figure dwindled, and was by-and-by lost to
sight; the advancing one increased, and became
recognisable by its crookedness as that of
Pennycomequick, the cobbler.  But he bore no bundle of
leather.  He passed the Towers in the direction of
the village, and soon he too had vanished.

Dick could not doubt that the other man was the
farmer, Jimmy Nancarrow.  The path into which
he had struck led to his farm.  Where had they
come from?  Not far along the high road, otherwise
the farmer would have left it when he reached the
path, and have gone the easiest and shortest way
home; unless, indeed, he had remained with the
cobbler for company's sake.  Dick smiled at this
thought.  Pennycomequick was the most crabbed
and crossgrained man in the village; whereas
Nancarrow was a hearty, jovial fellow, not the kind of
man to walk an extra half-mile and tramp over a
ploughed field for the pleasure of the cobbler's
society.  It seemed more probable that the men had
come to the road together from some adjacent spot,
and that the farmer had left it at once.

Cold and hungry after his hour of watching,
Dick was about to descend into the house when he
caught sight of Tonkin's lugger beating up from
northward against the south-west wind, and
evidently making for the harbour.  He gazed at her
through his glass.  Tonkin and three other men
were aboard her.  A large fishing-net was heaped on
the deck.  It was a strange coincidence that these
movements on sea and land should have been
contemporaneous.  Dick went down the stairs to the
living-room, then vacant, lay down in front of the
fire, and ruminated on what he had seen, until the
warmth sent him to sleep.

When he awoke, his father was in the room.
Dick considered whether he should speak about the
clues which he believed he had discovered, and
decided that, since nothing was as yet certain, he
would keep silence until he had carried his investigation
further.  To search for the tracks of the two
men, or to follow them up if found, would be
impossible that evening; but this was to be his task
as soon as there was clear daylight on the morrow.

"Mr. Mildmay is going to the randy at the
Dower House to-morrow, I hear," said the Squire.

"Is he, sir?" replied Dick, surprised.

"Yes; I heard it from Mr. Polwhele, who is
going too."

"Mr. Mildmay is almost a stranger, and 'tis
rather a dull life for him between whiles; but
Mr. Polwhele knew John Trevanion years ago, did he
not, sir?"

"Oh! he is going as watch-dog.  He suspects
that the invitation may be a trick to get them out of
the way while the smugglers run a cargo, and got
Mr. Mildmay to promise to leave promptly at nine.
He accompanies him to see that he is not detained."

"Nothing has been heard of old Joe, Father?"

"Nothing at all.  I incline to think that we
shall soon see him again.  With Mr. Polwhele on
the alert, and Mr. Mildmay also, let us hope, there
can be neither run nor shipment, and the rascals will
tire of keeping guard on the old man."

Again Dick was on the point of disclosing what
he knew, but was restrained by the same feeling
that suspicion must become certainty before any
steps were taken.

Next morning, waking before it was light, he
rose and dressed, roused Sam, and set off with him
to investigate the neighbourhood of the spot where
he had first seen Nancarrow and Pennycomequick.
The air was crisp and clear, with the first nip of
frost, giving promise of a fine morning.  There had
been rain in the night, but a thin film of ice covered
the ruts and pools, and the boys might have been
tracked in the darkness by the slight crackling under
their feet as the icy layer gave way.

The night was yielding by the time they reached
the high-road near the point where Nancarrow had
left it.  The farmer's tracks were easily discoverable
in the ploughed field, for, having been filled up by
rain, the prints of his large boots formed a series of
white and regular patches in the frost-besprinkled
ground.  A covey of snipe rose into the air from
the sedgy border of a pool at the side of the field, and
Sam pointed out a fox with lowered brush slinking
along after them beside a hedge of brambles.

"We have other foxes to run to earth—two-legged
foxes," said Dick, who had told Sam on the
way the occasion and the object of their expedition.
Sam had a quick eye for the tracks of birds and
beasts, but when they had traced the farmer's
footprints back to the road, even he was at a loss.
The rain had washed the hard surface of the
highway, and obliterated the tracks of footfarers.

Finding their examination of the road likely to
prove fruitless, they scrambled through the hedge on
the left, and crossed into the rugged and uneven
ground that lay between the road and Penwarden's
cottage.  There were no footprints on the path that
ran past the cottage, nor on the coarse grass with
which the earth was covered.  Returning to the
road, they walked for a quarter of a mile further,
until they reached the footpath which, in the
ordinary course of things, the farmer would have
taken.  They failed to light upon any more traces.

"I'll work backwards along the other side under
the hedge," said Dick.  "Nancarrow must have
crossed the road.  You go back to where we saw
his footprints, and I'll keep pace with you.  No;
we'll change parts; I can easily find the prints;
your eyes are quicker than mine to discover new
ones."

"That's true," said Sam, gratified by this testimony
to his powers.  "Wend along, then, Maister
Dick, and holla when you come to 'em."

In a few minutes Dick called to Sam to halt.
The latter bent towards the road, and scrutinised its
hard surface minutely, for several yards in each
direction beyond the point opposite to that where
Dick stood.

"Neither heel nor toe mark do I see," he said at
length.  "The road be washed clean."

He stood erect and gazed about him in a puzzled
way.  All at once his eyes became fixed on one
portion of the hedge.  Stepping towards it, he stooped
and peered among the stiff rime-encrusted leaves.

"Hoy!" he called.

"Hush!" said Dick, hastening towards him.
"Speak low; there may be some one about.  What
have you found?"

"Look' ee see," replied Sam in a mysterious
whisper.

Dick stooped; there was a patch of foliage less
thick than the hedge around it; some of the leaves
had apparently been shaken off, and here and there
twigs were broken.

"Some man, fox, or other creeping thing hev
squeezed hisself through theer," said Sam.  "We'll
do the same."

He thrust his body against the hedge, which
yielded to his pressure, and without much effort he
passed through to the other side.

"Dear life!" he whispered, "here be the line o'
fortune.  Come through, Maister."

Dick followed him.  The softer earth on the
seaward side of the hedge, more receptive than the
highway, showed distinct traces of the passage of
clumping boots.  Some were recent; some appeared
to be of slightly older date.  Looking along the
ground towards the sea, they saw that the grass was
crushed over a width of two or three feet, though
many more goings and comings were needed to
make it a beaten path.

This was a discovery indeed.

"We will follow it up," said Dick.

They set off side by side.  Dick was surprised to
find how frequently, and to all appearance erratically,
the track wound to right and left.  But after a few
moments it became clear that the deviations were
not accidental, but purposeful.  The general surface
of the ground was very uneven, here a bump, there
a hollow; now a patch of gorse, then a stretch bare
of all but grass.  Of these features advantage had
been taken by those whose passing had made the
track.  They had chosen, not the easiest route, but
that on which they would be least visible from the
direction of the village.  Dick noticed that nowhere
along the path were the towers of his home in sight,
although a few yards to right or left they were
completely in view.  This explained how it was that
Pennycomequick and Nancarrow, if they had come
this way from the cliff to the road, had escaped his
observation from the parapet.

They had followed the track for perhaps half a
mile when the ivy-clad ruins of the chapel above
St. Cuby's Well came into view.  Instantly recollections,
suspicions, deductions linked themselves in Dick's
mind.  Penwarden had mentioned a hiding-place
which the smugglers were believed to have on the
shore, but which was seldom used, and had never
been discovered.  The old mine, with its abandoned
workings, would form an ideal temporary store for
contraband goods.  But how was access to it
obtained from the sea?  Not by the entrance to the
seal cave, for this was unsuitable in itself for a
storehouse, and the work of hoisting the tubs up the
wall and over the ledge would be very laborious.
Dick remembered the transverse gallery which he
had passed on his way through the adit to the well;
probably the hiding-place would be found at the
shoreward end of that, though it was strange that
the pertinacity of the revenue officers had never
discovered it.  Another surprising circumstance was
the choice of the well as the channel for the
conveyance of goods between the shore and the country.
The horror and dread in which it was held by the
villagers had seemed genuine; yet, if his reasoning
was correct, the fear of ghosts had not been so potent
as to prevent the smugglers from entering it.
Possibly there was another shaft connecting the
hiding-place with the upper ground; but remembering
the strutted adit he had traversed, Dick felt
sure that the goods were brought to the surface by
way of the well.  The explanation of this puzzling
fact did not occur to him till later.

As they approached the well the boys proceeded
with great caution.

"I believe they have got Penwarden down there,"
said Dick.  "Somebody is guarding him; somebody
may be watching in the chapel.  If we are seen it
will be awkward for us, and perhaps still more for
old Joe."

"Daze it all, we could run to the Towers and tell
of all their wicked doings.  But do 'ee think they
bean't afeard o' the ghosteses?"

"They don't appear to be."

"Dash my simple soul, I see their manin', I do
b'lieve.  'Afeard o' their own bogeys,' says Maister
John.  They do be the ghosteses their own selves.
To think o' their deceivin' ways, tarrifyin' poor
simple folks like you and me wi' their feignin'!"

They spoke in whispers, peering ahead, listening
for sounds.  But there was nothing to alarm eyes or
ears, and they came at length beneath the shade of
the masonry, and stood on the brink of the well.
Here there were clear traces of recent movements—traces
which might have escaped them had they come
unsuspectingly, but which were evident to their
prepared perception.  The herbage was slightly
trodden; the topmost staple was not so thickly
cased with rust as it had been at their last visit; and
the mossy coating of the stonework at the edge was
darkened at two places, about two feet apart, where
the hands of men ascending would have rested for
support.

"We must go down and explore the adits," said Dick.

"But we couldn't see a hand's length ahead of
us," replied Sam, fumbling in his pocket.  "No;
there's no candle; have you got one?"

"No.  'Tis a pity.  We had better go back for
breakfast and come again by-and-by.  Just take a
look round and see that nobody is about."

Sam left the slight hollow in which the ruins were
situated, and mounted to a spot whence the ground
sloping up to Penwarden's cottage, and the whole
expanse southward to the Towers, could be scanned.
No one was in sight, but the boys considered it
prudent to return by the road, as they had come,
and made the best of their way back.  The hour
was still early; there were neither vehicles nor
pedestrians visible; and they arrived at the Towers
considerably excited by their discovery, and with a
healthy appetite for breakfast.

While they were still engaged in that meal, John
Trevanion issued from the front door of the Dower
House.  He wore an old shooting-coat and leggings,
and carried a fowling-piece slung over his shoulder.
Leaving his own grounds, he skirted those of the
Towers, gained the road, walked along it for some
distance, then struck into the path leading past
Penwarden's cottage in the direction of St. Cuby's
Well.  He sauntered easily along, and although he
had apparently come out to shoot, he was not
accompanied by a dog, nor did he proceed with
that intent watchfulness which a sportsman usually
displays.

When he arrived on the crest of rising ground
beyond which lay the well at the distance of a
quarter-mile, he paused, and looked round in all directions,
as a man might look who is either seeking game or
admiring a landscape.  Then he resumed his walk,
but at a much brisker pace than before.  On coming
within a hundred yards of the ruins, he began with
apparent carelessness to whistle a tune.  In a few
moments the mass of ivy hanging before a doorway
parted, and a man appeared.  Trevanion threw a
swift glance behind him, then advanced, joined the
man who was awaiting him, and vanished with him
behind the ivy.

"All well, Doubledick?" he asked.

"Iss, well enough, though I shall say 'praise be'
with a feelin' heart when 'tis all over."

"*You*'re not afraid of bogeys, Doubledick?"

"Not I.  But 'tis lonesome, and never a soul to
change a word with."

"Jake Tonkin did not stay with you, then?"

"No.  'A would hev if so be I'd axed un; but
when his feyther landed me I seed they two chuckleheads
afeard o' their own bogeys—hee! hee! 'tis
your sayin', Maister John.  I wouldn't lose my
fame wi' the likes o' they, so when Jake axed should
he bide, I answered un bold as brass, I assure 'ee.
Not that I wouldn' ha' been glad o' company, for
'tis a 'nation long time from four o'clock yesterday
till midnight to-day."

"It is, but 'twas right not to change guard too
often.  The less coming and going the better,
even by sea.  Pennycomequick and Nancarrow
returned on the lugger, of course?"

"Well, no.  The sea was choppy, and the wind
stiff agen 'em, so they come this way to save time
and squeamishness."

"Chuckleheads, as you say.  I hope they were
careful not to be seen."

"Trust 'em for that.  Nanky 'ud go straight to
farm, and Penny's crooked frame 'ud make nobody
mispicious."

"Well, twelve hours will see the end of it.  All
is planned, and will go like clockwork.  The officers
are coming at six; they talk of leaving at nine, and
I shall not hinder them."

"Hee! hee!" laughed Doubledick.

"Tonkin and his crew will do their part.  They
won't be back in time to lend a hand here, but we
have enough without them.  The wind holds; the
cutter will not trouble us; and we can go to church
to-morrow and sing 'Te Deum' with some satisfaction."

"Ay, true, 'twill be summat noble to talk about
to-morrer in churchyard among the tombs."

"Well, I'll go and bag a brace of woodcock on
the moor.  I'll look in on Nancarrow, too; 'tis just
as well to be sure he met nobody."

Trevanion moved to the ancient doorway and
pulled aside the screen of ivy.  But he let it fall
quickly and stepped back.

"Look here, Doubledick," he said in a whisper.

Doubledick went to his side, and peered out
through the foliage.  Two figures were approaching
the spot, not by the track from the road, but across
the higher ground.  Each carried a fowling-piece.

"Come out shooting, like me," whispered Trevanion.

"They didn' see 'ee?" said Doubledick anxiously.

"Not they.  If they had seen me they wouldn't
have followed.  The last person young Dick would
wish to meet would be his cousin."

Themselves concealed behind the ivy, the two
men could watch the new-comers without the risk of
being seen.  They expected the boys to pass by, as
nine villagers out of ten would have done, and the
expression on their faces changed when Dick and
Sam came directly towards the ruins, and, what was
still more surprising, straight towards the well.
Anger was written on Trevanion's countenance, and
alarm on Doubledick's.  The boys stood for a
moment at the brink of the well.  Then Dick,
telling Sam to follow him immediately, kindled the
candle in his hatband, lowered himself over the
edge, and began to descend.

A muffled curse broke from Doubledick's lips.
He reached for Trevanion's gun, but Trevanion,
now smiling, withdrew it, and signed to the
inn-keeper to be silent.  They remained where they
stood for a minute or two after Sam had disappeared,
then went forward to the well and peered down into
the depths.  The shaft was in darkness.  It was clear
that the boys had entered the adit.

There was no one to hear the short dialogue that
ensued between the two men standing close together
at the head of the well.  Apparently it was of
agreeable tenor, for both smiled, though hardly with
amusement.  Doubledick took from his pocket a
strip of something soft and black, removed his hat,
and tied to his face a mask of crape.  Then, with
no light to guide his footsteps, he made his way
downward into the shaft as the boys had done.
When he had entirely disappeared, Trevanion
shouldered his gun, and sauntered towards the road.
Crossing this, he tramped over the moor towards
Nancarrow's farm.  Rather more than an hour later
he was overtaken on the Truro road by Mr. Carlyon,
who was riding his cob towards the village.

.. _`"THERE WAS NO ONE TO HEAR THE SHORT DIALOGUE THAT ENSUED AT THE HEAD OF THE WELL"`:

.. figure:: images/img-217.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "THERE WAS NO ONE TO HEAR THE SHORT DIALOGUE THAT ENSUED AT THE HEAD OF THE WELL."

   "THERE WAS NO ONE TO HEAR THE SHORT DIALOGUE THAT ENSUED AT THE HEAD OF THE WELL."

"Fine birds, vicar," said Trevanion, holding up
a brace of woodcock and a moor-hen.  "They'll
look smaller on my table a few hours hence."

"Good morning, Mr. Trevanion," said the parson,
and rode by.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Across the Pit`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH


.. class:: center medium

   Across the Pit

.. vspace:: 2

All unconscious of what was happening behind
them, the boys, on reaching the foot of the well,
passed through the open doorway into the narrow
passage.

"These be rare doings," began Sam; but Dick
silenced him.

"Don't speak, Sam," he whispered.  "We don't
know who is here, or how near."

They passed on their left the passage where Dick
had been checked by the landfall on his first
approach from the cave.  Moving slowly and with
great caution, stopping every now and then to listen,
they uttered never a word until they arrived at the
point where the transverse gallery struck off to the
right.  Here they halted.  It was necessary to
decide whether to go straight on, and come by-and-by
to the seal cave, or to turn into the passage, which
they had never as yet traversed.  A moment sufficed
for coming to a decision.  The light from Dick's
candle showed that this passage was strutted, like
that along which they had already come.

"This must be the way," whispered Dick, and
low as was his tone, the words echoed and re-echoed
strangely in the narrow gallery.

They advanced, picking their way still more
carefully than before, peering into the darkness ahead,
occasionally turning to look behind them.  The floor
of the adit at first sloped slightly downwards, but at
length appeared to become level.  The air was close
and stuffy.  Sam, following his young master, and
seeing the weird shadows cast on the walls by the
smoking flame, was soon in a cold sweat, not so
much of fear as of nervous anticipation.  His dread
of ghosts had disappeared with knowledge; but it
was knowledge of a negative kind.  He knew there
were no ghosts, but his imagination conjured up
nameless terrors.  More than once he was tempted
to retreat, but he was too apprehensive even to halt
long enough to strike a light and kindle his own
candle, and the sight of Dick's tall form moving
steadily on in front of him helped him to pluck up
courage.

When they had been walking for a few minutes,
Sam suddenly hurried forward and caught Dick by
the arm.

"I heerd summat!" he whispered hoarsely.

Dick stopped.  Far from comfortable himself, the
touch of Sam's hand made him jump, and the
thumping of his heart was almost audible.  They
listened intently; no sound struck upon their ears.

"It must have been a falling stone," said Dick.

"Suppose the roof fell on us, same as it did in the
cave!" murmured Sam.

"'Tis not likely.  Don't get jumpy, Sam.  Let
us go on."

Again they advanced; a few steps brought them
to another adit branching to the right; but a glance
at this revealing no struts, Dick decided not to
change his course until he had thoroughly explored
the passage in which he was.  In a few minutes he
came to another adit, this time on the left, and this
also he passed by for the same reason, and because it
was narrower than any of those he had hitherto seen.
Now the floor seemed to ascend gradually, and
shortly afterwards became much more uneven.  At
length he stopped short, and waited until Sam came up
with him.

"Look at this," he whispered.

Sam looked, and saw a narrow plank bridge,
about seventeen feet long, spanning a black, yawning
chasm.

"'Tis an old mine shaft," said Dick.  "We must
cross the bridge."

"Will it bear us, think 'ee?" said Sam timorously.

"It will, if it bears smugglers carrying tubs.  We
must try."

Dick leant forward and probed the planks with
the muzzle of his fowling-piece.

"'Tis firm and steady," he said.  "I will go
first.  Don't start until I get across.  The candle
will give you more light than it gives me."

"I don't like to see 'ee do it," said Sam, almost
whimpering.  "If ye fall, 'twill be yer grave."

But Dick had already set his foot on the bridge.
He trod warily, moving almost by inches until he
reached the middle.  Then he quickened his pace,
and covered the second half in three swift strides.

"'Tis quite safe," he whispered, turning at the end.

"Didn' it wamble?"

"No."

"Not a little teeny bit?"

"Come, come, I am heavier than you."

"Well, I woll."

He moistened his lips, pressed his hat firmly on
his head, then started forward and crossed the whole
bridge at a run.

"Here I be!" he panted.  "Name it all!  I'll
never do it again."

"Then I shall leave you behind.  My word! 'tis
close and stuffy here."

They went on.  In a minute or two the passage
widened, and looking round, they discovered that
they were in what appeared to be the entrance to a
huge cavern.  Still advancing, they were brought up
within a few yards by a rough and irregular wall, not
wholly of granite, like the wall of the seal cave, but
partly of rock, partly of earth.  There were small
heaps of soil and stones of different sizes on the
uneven floor, and the wall was not perpendicular,
but inclined like the eaves of a house.

Dick gazed about him in search of a further
opening.  There was none.  The way was blocked,
just as it had been in the offshoot of the passage
from the seal cave to the well.  The general appearance
of the place indicated that at some time or other
the upper earth had fallen in.  To make sure that
there was not even the smallest orifice in the wall,
Dick moved close along it, carefully examining it by
the light of his candle.  When about half-way
round, he stopped, and placed his hand on something
that protruded from the wall, which was here earthen.
But this projecting object was neither earth nor rock.
In shape it was convex and regular.  He passed his
hand over it, brushing off some adhering particles of
soil.

"Why, Sam," he said wonderingly, "'tis part of a tub."

"Do 'ee tell o't?" said Sam, moving his palm
over the surface.  "So 'tis, and be-dazed if there
bean't a rope on it."

He tugged at the rope, and fell backwards,
almost upsetting Dick.

"Rot it all!" he exclaimed.

"'Tis rotted already," said Dick smiling.  "It
must have been there a long time."

"Cansta pull un out, Maister?" said Sam.
"Maybe there's summat inside, and I do be most
tarrible dry."

"We'll see; but you shan't drink neat spirit,
Sam, so you needn't think it.  Lend a hand here."

Between them the boys soon succeeded in working
the tub from the loose earth in which it was
imbedded.  It was a small barrel about fourteen
inches in diameter, bound with wooden hoops,
exactly similar to those which the smugglers were
wont to use.  The broken rope, or "sling stuff," as
it was called, attached to it proved that it had once
formed part of a run cargo.  Sam shook it; there
was no "glug" of liquor.

"'Tis spiled, sure enough," he said, "but the
hoops bean't broke."

"Here's another, Sam," said Dick, who had been
looking into the hole left by the removal of the tub.
"I can't help thinking we have come to an old
haunt of the smugglers; yes, I understand it now.
You know there was a landslip hundreds of years
ago, just beyond the cove.  The earth must have
fallen in on a cargo before it could be removed."

"But why didn' they dig 'em out arterwards?
And why be the tub as empty as a drum?"

"Yes, 'tis strange they did not dig them out, but
the emptiness is easy to understand.  The spirit has
run away."

"Run away!  How could it with the tub sound,
not a hole in it?  Besides, there bean't no smell,
and I don't care who the man is, but if sperits run
out, you can smell 'em anywhere."

"I suppose——" began Dick, but his answer was
suddenly cut short.  From the direction of the passage
through which they had come there fell upon their
ears a dull rumbling sound, which reverberated for a
few seconds, then died away into silence.

The boys stood for a moment in silent bewilderment;
then, with a foreboding of evil, Dick hastened
back from the cavern along the gallery.  In a
minute the astounding cause of the noise was
explained.  The bridge by which they had crossed
the shaft was gone.  Only the jagged end of it
jutted out from the further brink of the chasm.  By
the flickering light of the candle Dick thought he
saw a figure moving backwards through the gallery
on the opposite side.  He shouted, his voice coming
back to him in a hundred echoes.  The figure
disappeared, if indeed it were not an hallucination:
Dick's state of horrified amazement might well
predispose him to see visions.  He stood on the
brink, bathed in chill and clammy perspiration.  He
realised to the full the situation of himself and his
companion.  They were trapped in the gallery.
Before them was a shaft perhaps hundreds of feet
deep; behind, an impenetrable wall.

"I said I'd never do it again, and I never will,"
sobbed Sam.

"Hoy! hoy!" shouted Dick.

"Yo-hoy, hoy!" Sam repeated in his rougher tones.

But there was no reply; only the mocking,
receding echoes.

Dick leant against the wall in dull stupefaction.
He had said nothing to his parents about the
expedition; he had expressly charged Sam not to
speak of it to Reuben.  His very caution had
proved his undoing.  So common was it for him to
be all day away from home with Sam that their
absence would scarcely be remarked until night, and
then, even if it caused alarm, no one would dream
of looking for them at the well, still less in one of
the passages below.  But if Dick's suspicions and
inferences were well founded, at some time during
the day or night there would be smugglers in one
or other of the galleries, and they would surely
come within sound of his voice, and not be so base
as to refuse to help him.  Then it struck him that
perhaps such a cry might merely terrify them; that
they might believe it to be the utterance of the
disembodied spirits that were said to haunt the place.
But no; as his first terrors subsided, and he regained
his thinking power, a sudden light dawned upon
him.  The ghosts were the invention of the
smugglers themselves!  They had taken advantage
of ancient tradition and floating rumour for their
own purposes, encouraged the credulity of the many
in order that the few might preserve the secret of
their hiding-place.  And then it flashed upon him
that his presence near their jealously-guarded lair
had been discovered, and that his return had been
deliberately cut off, so that they might carry out
undisturbed the important operation of which
Trevanion and Doubledick had spoken.  In that
case his incarceration would be temporary, like
Penwarden's.  As soon as the run had been
accomplished, he, like the old exciseman, would be
liberated, and the smugglers would gloat over their
triumphant strategy.

"How many candles have you got?" he asked suddenly.

Sam rummaged in his pocket, and produced five
stumps varying in length.

"They will last about twelve hours," said Dick.
"There is no wind here to make them gutter."

"But they won't make us a bridge," groaned Sam.

"Listen to me," said Dick.

Speaking calmly, he told Sam the conclusions to
which he had come.

"Now, Sam, you see what we have to do.  It
was about nine o'clock when we came down the
well.  It will be twelve hours or more before they
attempt the run.  We have twelve hours before us;
we must get across the shaft and dish them—I don't
know how, but we must do it."

"How can we?  Rake it all, we shall have no dinner!"

"Don't talk like that," said Dick sternly.  "We
want all our wits and determination.  'Tis mere
folly to think about dinner, or groan and moan
because we are hungry.  I tell you, young Sam, you
must do your best to help, and be cheerful, or you
and I will split."

"Well, I'll keep my solemn thoughts to myself
and spake out nothing but merry ones, if I can
think 'em."

Dick considered for a few moments; then he took
from his pocket a knife and a long piece of string,
knotted the latter about the haft, and stuck the blade
into a lighted candle.  This he lowered into the
chasm, lying at full length to make the most of the
string.  But the flame revealed no bottom to the shaft.
Even had they seen a floor it seemed impossible to
get there, or, getting there, to be in any way profited.
At one time, no doubt, there had been a means of
ascending and descending the shaft; but the very
existence of the bridge showed that the machinery
had long since disappeared, and the passage-way by
which they had made their entrance was the only exit.

"We had better blow out the candle," said Dick.
"We don't know how long we may be here, and
you may be glad to eat it before we get out of this."

"That I never could; but 'tis wisdom to save it,
when we can't see anything nice to look at, and you
can allers meditate better in the dark."

They reclined against the wall of the gallery.
For a time they were silent except for sighs that now
and then escaped Sam's heaving breast.  After one
prolonged expiration Dick asked sharply what he
was grunting about.

"Don't 'ee laugh, now, if I tell o't," said Sam
pleadingly.  "My simple thought was, what would
Maidy Susan say if she knowed o' this horrible
place o' torment?  'There shall be weepin' and
gnashin' o' teeth,' says pa'son; 'twill come to that
afore long wi' me.  There now, 'nation take it!  I
said I'd spake merry thoughts.  Maybe you could
put one into my mizzy-mazy head, Maister Dick."

"I'll break it for you if you can't talk
sense——  There!  Did you hear that?"

"'Twas like the whisk of a rabbit's scut among
the furze.  Hoy!  Yo-hoy!  Come and help two
poor boys in misery."

"Hoy!  hoy!" shouted Dick.

The echoes crossed and clashed, but there was no
answer.

Another period of silence.  It seemed to last for
hours.  At length Dick relit the candle and once
more scanned the shaft.  Could he jump it?  He
measured it with his eye.  He had never been to
school; jumping as a sport was unknown to him.
In the ordinary course of his outdoor adventures he
had sometimes leapt across a stream or from rock to
rock, but never a space so wide as this.  Realising
the impossibility of the feat, he blew out the candle
and returned to his place beside Sam.

"I seed yer thought," said the boy, "but Sir
Bevil fox-hunting never took a gap like that.  A
hoss med do it, but not a two-legged body."

Again there was silence.  Presently Sam fell
asleep, snoring vigorously.  Dick pondered and
puzzled; to him sleep was impossible.  All at once
he remembered the barrel he had found in the wall
of the cave.  A faint hope stirred within him.  He
wakened Sam, relit the candle, and hurried back
through the passage.

"What be goin' to do?" asked Sam.

"To see how many tubs there are," he said.

"If there be a million they bean't no good wi' all
the sperits gone a-lost," said Sam.  "Howsomever,
'twill be summat to do to count 'em, and keep us
from the squitchems."

They regained the cave.  Dick, bending so that
the light of the candle shone full into the hole in
the wall, began to scrape away with his knife the
earth that partially concealed the second barrel.  Not
to be backward, Sam set to work in the same way
a little to the right.  The second tub was soon
unearthed, then a third.

"We must be careful not to disturb the earth
above," said Dick, "or we shall have the rest
covered up again.  I believe there are a good
number here."

"All leery," said Sam with a sigh.  "But I
don't care who the man is, they bean't leerier nor I....
There's my tongue runnin' to vittals again; I
reckon 'tis because I hain't done growin'."

After resting a while, they resumed their work.
In course of time, they had a row of ten or twelve
barrels standing against the wall.

"I wish there was something else," said Dick.

"What yer manin' be 'tis not for me to say," said
Sam, "but my feelings be just the same.  Why,
dash my bones, here *be* summat else; a box,
Maister; look at un."

He drew forth a long flat box, which he shook as
he had shaken the barrels.

"Ah! 'tis full o' nothing, seemingly.  If 'twas
only tay, now, or bacca that we med chaw; but 'tis
a'most as light as a feather."

He prised up the lid of the box with his knife.
The wood was thin, and crumbled away at the touch
of the steel.  There was something pink beneath,
and the removal of the lid disclosed a quantity of
silk, which, when it was unfolded, proved to be
many yards in length.

"Only think o't!" said Sam.  "Don't it feel
plum!  Oh! what a noble garment 't'ud make for
Maidy Susan!"

"'Tis much too good for her," said Dick.  "It
would suit Mother better."

"True, 'tis fit for queens and other high females,
but the Mistress be gettin' a old ancient person, and
't'ud look more fitty on a nesh young frame.  Ah
me! it bean't no good for high or low, this side o'
that dark fearsome hole in the ground."

"Let us see if there are any more boxes," said
Dick.  "And let me tell you, Mother is only
forty-five, so mind what you say, Sam."

"Well, forty-five is more 'n double twenty, can
'ee deny it?  When I be forty-five, I shall be a old
aged feller with a beard and a shiny sconce like
Feyther, and he don't care a cuss what raiment he
do wear."

Further search brought to light several boxes like
the first, containing silks of various hue, and laces
which even to Dick's inexperience appeared valuable.
The materials seemed to be in as good a condition
as when they left Lyons or Nice, and without doubt
represented a considerable sum of money.  But to
Dick, as he contemplated them, they suggested a
more immediate and urgent use than the turning
into money.  The wood of the barrels appeared to
be sound; it had been preserved from rotting by
their spirituous contents.  By breaking them up
into their separate staves, he would have at his
disposal enough timber to make a bridge.  The
staves were two feet long and about five inches
broad; ten or twelve lengths would be required to
span the gap, and allow sufficient grip.  The
"sling-stuff" round the barrels, as he had already proved,
was too friable to be of any value for lashing, but
the silk, torn into strips, might answer this purpose.

"Take hold of the end of this," he said to Sam,
handing him a length of the material, "and pull as
hard as you can."

The test proved that the silk was capable of
enduring a heavy direct strain, and if this were so in
the piece, it would be still stronger when wound
many times about the wood.

Dick explained his plan.

"Drown it all!" cried Sam.  "What a tarrible
deed o' wickedness!  Can 'ee abear to think o' this
noble shinin' stuff tore to strents and lippets?"

"'Tis a pity, of course, but 'tis more important
that we should get over the gap than that any
woman, matron or maid, should flaunt it in fine
array.  We'll set to work at once.  Time must be
getting on.  The candle has nearly gone: that
means three hours or so.  Light another, Sam."

Dick tore the silk carefully into even strips, while
Sam knocked the ends off the tubs, and broke the
staves apart.  Every now and then the boy paused,
heaving a deep sigh.

"'Tis like a knife goin' through my soul every
time I hear the hoosh ye do make," he said.  "There,
I says to myself, there goes the sleeve, and that's the
petticoat, and there's this part and that I don't know
the true name of.  Ah well, Maidy Susan will never
know from me, that's one comfort.  She'd be cryin'
her pretty eyes out, that 'a would, if she did see the
deed o' destruction."

When nine or ten barrels had been broken up,
and the floor was strewn with strips of silk, pink,
blue, green, and other colours, Dick began to
arrange the materials for constructing the bridge.
It was to be about twenty feet long, to allow for a
sufficient overlapping at each end of the gap.  When
he came to consider the actual details of construction
he saw that his first idea, a bridge to cross on foot,
was not feasible.  The staves were too narrow to
afford a secure foothold, and if placed side by side,
the risk of their breaking apart was very great.  He
resolved, therefore, to concentrate his energies on a
single pole, formed by binding three layers of staves
together, and by means of this, work his way across
the gap hand over hand, his legs dangling in the
shaft.  It would be a ticklish feat; indeed, he was
by no means confident of its possibility; but he had
the strongest motives for making the attempt, as
well as a native doggedness that forbade him to sit
idle in the face of difficulty.

The short staves had little curvature.  He laid
a number of them end to end to form a length of
twenty-two feet, placing them alternately so that one
had its convex, the other its concave, side to the
ground, and with overlapping ends.  These he
bound very firmly together.  Then he laid a second
set on the first, in such a way that their joins
occurred at different spots.  Then he wound the
strips of silk as tightly as possible round this double
pole, carrying the windings several inches on each
side of the joints.  When four or five feet of the
double pole were finished, he tested its rigidity by
endeavouring to snap it across his knee; but
though the thin wood bent slightly, the lashings
held firmly, and he was well satisfied.

"'Tis very good so far, Sam," he said; "now
we must put on a third layer."

"'Nation take it, we shall never be done," cried
Sam, stretching his aching body.  "I be mortal
tired, and hungry!—there now, Maister Dick,
spake yer mind like a simple honest feller, wi'out
any tongue-twistin', and fine deceivin' language.
Bean't 'ee most achin' hungry?  Now, tell me true."

"I own I am, but 'tis no good thinking of it."

"No more do I want.  You've said it.  I reckon
you be just as famished as I, if not more, only too
proud to own it.  Be-jowned if there be any sech
lofty pride in me."

They proceeded with the work, lashing the third
layer firmly to the other two, and employing, for
greater security, the flexible wooden hoops which
had held the barrels together.  At last the bridge
was complete.  It had been a long and laborious
task: neither of the boys had any idea how many
hours it had occupied; they had lighted successive
candle-ends mechanically, without taking count of
them.  The close air of the cave was now impregnated
with smoke and tallow fumes, and both longed
for a breath of fresh air.

All this time they had neither seen nor heard any
person or thing.  Indeed, they had been so fully
occupied, as scarcely to bestow a thought on what
might be going on beyond the gap.  It did cross
Dick's mind that the noise made by Sam in breaking
the barrels might have been heard; but it was a
considerable distance from the cave to the gap, and
the passage between them was not straight.  Nobody
could have seen them at work; the sound, if it
travelled beyond the gap, could only be a faint,
indistinguishable murmur then; and the absence of
a bridge was an effectual preventive of interference.
It now remained to throw the suspension bridge
across the gap.  They carried it through the passage,
stood it on one end, and lowered it over the opening,
Sam holding the bottom end steady while Dick let
the structure down by means of a silken rope.

"'Tis too crazy a thing to bear a cat's weight," said
Sam gloomily, when it rested in place.

"I don't believe you.  At any rate we can't make
anything better.  I'll go first, being the heavier.  If
I get safe across you can come after.  Hold your
end firmly as I go."

"You don't want me to look at 'ee?"

"Why not?"

"Because—because—drown it all!" said the boy,
dashing tears from his eyes.  "Do 'ee think I could
bear it if I seed 'ee drop into this everlastin' pit?"

"You're a good fellow, young Sam; but I shan't
drop, please God!"

He took his boots off, so that he could get a
firmer grip if he had to scramble up the opposite
side.  Then, while Sam lay flat on the ground
across the end of the pole, Dick swung himself over
the shaft, gripping the bridge with both hands
extended above his head.  He remained motionless
for a few moments, testing the strength of his
support; then, realising that the quicker he moved the
better, since the strain both upon the pole and his own
endurance would be less than if he went slowly, he
began to advance hand over hand, but as smoothly
as possible, towards the other side.  As he approached
the middle, he saw by the light of the candle in his
hatband that the pole was sagging alarmingly, and
he felt it sway with his every movement.  The
further end of it was no longer flat on the floor of
the passage, but tilted up at an angle of 30 degrees.
Dick shivered as he felt his support apparently slipping
downwards into the shaft.  But he did not pause,
and in a moment he was relieved to find that the
downward movement ceased.

Arriving within a foot or two of the wall, he saw
that he was some little distance below the level of
the passage, and the free end of the pole, now almost
perpendicular, was swaying terribly.  How was he
to get up?  There was no projection from the side of
the shaft which he could grasp, and it seemed that
at any moment the pole might slip off into the gulf,
carrying him with it.  His arms were aching with
the unaccustomed strain; not much longer could they
sustain the weight of his body.  Groping with his
toes on the sheer face of the shaft, he managed to
get a slight purchase with one foot.  In another
moment he obtained a little better grip with the
other, though in so doing he had to spread-eagle
himself.  Now, with his double purchase on the
wall, he was able to relieve the weight on his hands,
and take breath for the final effort.

The lessening of the strain on the pole reduced
the angle of inclination of its free portion to the
floor.  Dick worked his way inch by inch along;
then, drawing his body upwards, he swung his leg
over the pole, gripping it firmly with his hands, and
in a few moments was able to reach out and grasp
the free portion above the brink and haul himself on
to the floor.

He flung himself face downward to rest, gasping
a murmur of thankfulness.  Sam at the other end,
though he had at first closed his eyes, opened them
almost immediately, unable to resist the fascination
of that perilous crossing.  He shuddered when he
saw the pole bend and sway under Dick's weight,
and pressed his lips hard together so that he should
not cry out as the further end rose higher and higher
from the level.  When Dick had safely landed, Sam
was too much overcome with emotion to utter a
sound.  He rubbed the chill moisture from his face
and waited.

Presently Dick got up, rekindled the candle, which
had been extinguished when he threw himself down,
and called across.

"Now 'tis your turn, Sam.  You will have an
easier passage than I.  Drive a couple of staves into
the ground and lash the pole to them.  I'll hold it
firm on this side, so that it will not sway so much as
when I crossed."

"No; I can't do it; I'm all of a sweat," said Sam.

"Come, come! you'll not give in, surely."

"Iss, I woll, cheerful.  Never could I sink my
legs into that gashly hole.  It do put me in mind of
poor fellers dangling on the drop in Bodmin jail.
No; there bean't meat enough in my inside to give
me sperit for it, and here I'll bide—I don't care
who the man is—till you finds a gangway."

"But you'll be left in the dark.  This is the last
candle."

"You won't make me afeard if you try.  Here I
be safe; not a soul can get to me across this hole;
and dark or light, I bean't the man for sech a deed.
I be truly sorry to leave 'ee, Maister Dick, but
you'd rayther see me sound in all my members than
here a bit, there a bit."

"Very well.  You've lost your nerve, that's clear.
Shy over my boots, will you?"

Sam lifted one and cast it; but he was apparently
too much shaken to take good aim.  The boot fell
into the shaft.

"See now!  'Tis plain!" he said forlornly.
"My poor wambling arm!  Even as yer boot fell,
so——"

"Hush!" cried Dick.

There had been no sound of the boot striking on
the bottom.  After what seemed a long time—it was
in fact no more than two or three seconds—from the
depths came rumbling reverberations of a splash.
The water must have been nearly two hundred
feet below.  Both the boys were silent as they
thought of the terrible fate Dick would have met
with if he had fallen.

"Well, good-bye, Sam!" said Dick at last,
rousing himself.  "One boot is no good without the
other, so you can keep it.  I'll come back for you
as soon as I can."

"I wish 'ee well, Maister."

He stood near the brink, with a piteous expression
upon his rugged face, watching Dick's gradually
receding form.  When a bend in the passage hid
his master and comrade from view, he leant against
the wall, and buried his face in his hands.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Packet for Rusco`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH


.. class:: center medium

   A Packet for Rusco

.. vspace:: 2

During many hours Dick had been solely
preoccupied with the problem how to recross the
chasm.  Penwarden, the smugglers, even the
destroyer of the bridge, were all forgotten.  But now
all the circumstances of his recent misadventure
returned with full force to his mind.  A run was to
be attempted.  The smugglers' hiding-place, which
the revenue officers had sought in vain, must be
somewhere near at hand, and the person, whosoever
it was, that had flung the bridge down the shaft—for
its fall could not have been accidental—had done
so with the intention of forestalling interference.

Dick considered what he had better do.  Should
he make his way back to the well, in the hope of
being able to climb it secretly and give warning to
the officers?  He reflected that it might be too late
for that.  Besides, his presence in these underground
passages had been observed by some one early in
the morning; that same person might still be lying
in wait for him.  As this idea occurred to him, he
remembered that he had left his gun behind in the
cave, and for an instant thought of returning for it;
but a slight sound from the other direction made
him hastily extinguish the candle, and advance
cautiously along the passage; perhaps the
bridge-destroyer was coming towards him.

In pitch darkness he stole along, scarcely conscious
of the sharp edges and rough projections of the stone
floor on which he trod.  In a few minutes he saw a
faint glimmer of reflected light ahead, the source
of which was hidden from him by a bend in the
passage.  On reaching the bend, he descried, moving
across the end of the gallery along a transverse
one, a procession of men with candles in their hats,
hurrying, at short intervals apart, from the direction
of the well.  Clinging to the wall, confident that in
the black darkness he was wholly invisible, he
crept forward.  By the time he came within a few
yards of the transverse passage, this, too, was in
darkness, the last of the line having passed by.

He hastened to the corner, and peeped round to
the right.  The last man was entering the narrow
tunnel, which he had noticed casually as he came by
with Sam.  The dimness of the flickering light, and
the fact that the man's back was towards him,
prevented him from forming any conclusion as to the
identity of the individual.  The light gradually
dwindled, until the opening of the tunnel was quite
indistinguishable.

Waiting for a moment or two, to listen and look
along the passage leading to the well, Dick ventured
to creep stealthily in the same direction as the men,
and to penetrate into the tunnel.  He had advanced
in this but a few yards, when he was made to beat a
hasty retreat by a faint but growing light at the
further end, and the sound of heavy footsteps
approaching.  As quickly as possible he tiptoed
back in the darkness, and regained his former station
in the side gallery, where he stood eagerly watching.
In a few moments a man crossed from right to left.
His face was blackened; before and behind him hung
a tub, exactly similar to those which Sam had lately
broken up.  A second man followed at a short
interval, loaded in the same way; then a third, and
so on, until twenty-two had passed.  They seemed
by their dress to be for the most part farm-hands,
but the light from their candles was too dim to
reveal them clearly.

The light diminished, the sound of footsteps died
away, and Dick, emerging once more into the
passage, saw the end of the procession on the way to
the well.  From the other direction there was no
sound.  Dick felt an overmastering curiosity to
discover how the run was being worked, and whence
the tubs were brought.  He hastened to the tunnel,
paused for a little at the entrance, straining his ears
for the slightest sound of men returning, then
went on.

After a few steps he heard a slight creaking from
some point ahead.  A glance behind assuring him
that there was no present danger in this direction,
he was emboldened to proceed.  There was a sudden
bend in the tunnel; at the far end he saw a light;
and, hugging the wall as closely as possible, he crept
forward until the scene beyond was clearly in view.

He found himself near the entrance to a small
oblong chamber, perhaps twenty feet by sixteen, and
scarcely eight feet high.  The walls were shored up
by thick balks of wood: the roof was supported
by rough beams.  The place was dimly illuminated
by two lanterns standing on the top of a pile of
barrels that reached within two feet of the roof.  At
the far end a man was working a windlass over a
hole in the floor.  Two barrels, slung on ropes,
emerged from the depths, were unhooked by the
man, and rolled against the wall on the other side of
the chamber.  A whiff of cold salt air struck
gratefully on Dick's senses; the smugglers' mysterious
hiding-place was clearly very near the sea.

Dick was watching the man lower the hooks
into the space beneath when he was startled by the
sound of footsteps at no great distance behind him.
Looking back, he saw a glimmer of light.  Regress
was barred; in a few moments he would be
discovered unless he could find a new place of
concealment.  There was no time for hesitation.  The
back of the man at the windlass was towards him;
the tackle creaked as more tubs ascended.  In the
corner of the chamber to the right was the stack
of barrels on which the lanterns stood.  There
appeared to be just squeezing space between them
and the wall.  With his heart in his mouth Dick
stole across to them on tiptoe, and had barely gained
their shelter when the man released the tubs which
had just ascended, and added them to those that
were arranged along the opposite wall.

As Dick was creeping between the barrels and the
wall, his foot touched an obstacle, over which he
almost stumbled.  Fortunately, having no boots on,
he made no sound.  He stood still, panting, in
desperate anxiety.  In the urgency of the moment
he had made for the first hiding-place that offered
itself, without reflecting that the carriers were no doubt
returning for these very barrels, and their removal
must reveal him without a possibility of escape.  A
thrill shot through him as he felt a slight movement
in the object at his feet, and he edged instinctively
away from it, wondering what it could be.  The
light from the lanterns did not reach the floor;
indeed, scarcely illuminated the space behind, they
being closed in that direction.

He heard the footsteps drawing nearer, and,
peeping through a chink between two barrels, saw,
not one, but the whole twenty-two carriers file into
the chamber, which they nearly filled.  He suspected
that they had deposited their burdens at the foot of
St. Cuby's Well, whence, in all probability, these
were being hoisted to the surface by means of the
windlass, which he remembered having seen near the
door when he first approached it from the seal cave.

The man at the windlass had raised only a few
barrels during their absence, and these having been
slung on the shoulders of the men who had first
entered, they returned to the entrance of the tunnel,
waiting for their comrades in turn to receive their
loads.

"Bean't this lot to go, Maister?" said one of the
latter, jerking his head towards the stack behind
which Dick was concealed.  Dick shivered, and
prepared to dash forth and force his way through
the men grouped at the tunnel, in the hope that
their surprise and alarm, and their being encumbered,
would give him time at least to escape instant
seizure.  To his relief the man at the windlass
replied sharply:

"No, they bean't.  They be for the higher powers;
let 'em alone.  And you come and hoist; I be tired."

The voice was Doubledick's.

While the tubs were being hoisted, and the waiting
men talked quietly among themselves, Dick had
leisure to turn his thoughts towards the object at his
feet.  It could hardly be an animal; otherwise it
would long since have betrayed him.  He gently
moved a foot towards it, and touched it.  Again he
detected a slight movement.  Passing his stockinged
toes over a few inches of the obstruction, Dick
gave a start as he recognised by the touch a man's
boot.  It did not move when he pressed it: clearly
it was attached to a leg, the leg to a body—and the
conviction flashed upon him that, bound and gagged
at his feet, lay the lost Joe Penwarden.  To assure
himself he bent down quickly, and felt his way upward
to the face.  His hand encountered the shade over
the old man's sightless eye: it was Joe indeed.

Penwarden was lying on his back, and Dick very
soon discovered that he was bound hand and foot to
a plank, so tightly that only the slightest movement
was possible.  His mouth was heavily gagged, but
there was no bandage over his single sound eye.
Dick could not see him, and durst not speak even in
the lowest whisper, so near was he to the smugglers.
But if Penwarden was to be liberated he must be
definitely assured in some way that a friend was at
work who was himself in danger; otherwise, on being
freed, he might make some sound or movement that
would betray them both.  Then it occurred to Dick
that, while he was unable to see Penwarden's features,
Penwarden had probably seen his, for the lanterns
shed a faint illumination on the upper part of the
space behind the barrels, to which his head almost
reached.  This suggested a means of giving the old
man a warning.  Raising himself to his full height
he looked downwards and pressed his forefinger
to his lips.  The sign, if observed, would, he knew,
be effectual.

Once more he stooped.  He drew his knife from
his pocket, opened it without clicking, and silently
cut the rope binding the prisoner's feet.  Then,
working upward, always with the same slow care, he
severed in turn the ropes that strapped his knees and
elbows to the plank, those binding his wrists, and
finally the gag over his mouth.  This last probably
gave the old man the most discomfort, and might
have been removed first, but the use of his limbs
was of more urgent importance just now than his voice.

By the time that this was done the last of the
carriers had received his load, and the creaking or
the windlass had ceased.

"That's all," said Doubledick.  "Now get 'ee
up-along to well, and lend a hand in the hoisting."

"Be we to wait for 'ee, Maister, when the tubs be
all up?" asked a man.

"No, no.  You'll do best to carr' the tubs off as
quick as may be.  I'll go straight home-along.
To-morrer mornin', after church, if ye like ye can
come down-along to inn, where there'll be a
nibleykin of rum-hot ready for every man of 'ee."

The carriers tramped into the tunnel, and the
sound of their footsteps died away.

A voice came up into the chamber from below.

"Iss," said Doubledick in reply.  "Stand by
while I let down the passel.  Belike ye know
enough English to understand that."

Dick fancied that he heard a low chuckle from
below, and a foreign voice say, "All right."

Doubledick had already begun to clear away the
barrels at the end of the stack nearest to the
windlass.  It was plain that what he had got to do was
a secret between himself and the men below; the
tub-carriers were ignorant of it.  Dick moved
silently to the other end of the stack, the place
where he had entered, and gazed round to watch the
innkeeper's proceedings.  Even now, though there
appeared to be no danger of detection, the upper
part of his face remained covered with a mask.  He
had removed the lanterns, and placed them on the
floor; several of the top row of barrels had been
lifted down.  His object, without doubt, was to
drag Penwarden forth, and lower him by means of
the windlass to the men waiting beneath.  Dick felt
sure that these were the French crew of the lugger
that had brought the cargo, and that the "parcel"
they were expecting was the old exciseman, whom
they were to carry to France.

The innkeeper's pre-occupation was Dick's opportunity.
In another second or two the cutting of the
prisoner's bonds must be discovered.  As
Doubledick was rolling a barrel towards the wall, Dick,
moving silently on his almost bare feet, rushed like
a whirlwind on the man.  Doubledick at that
moment made a half-turn, as if some instinct warned
him of danger, but he was too late to prevent Dick
from getting a suffocating grip round his neck.
He gasped, groaned, struggled frantically to free
himself.  Both fell to the floor, knocking over one
of the lanterns, and rolling perilously near the open
trapdoor.  Dick never let go his grip on the
inn-keeper's throat, for it was necessary to prevent the
men below from suspecting that anything was amiss.

.. _`"DICK RUSHED LIKE A WHIRLWIND ON THE MAN"`:

.. figure:: images/img-244.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "DICK RUSHED LIKE A WHIRLWIND ON THE MAN."

   "DICK RUSHED LIKE A WHIRLWIND ON THE MAN."

Meanwhile Penwarden had scrambled painfully
to his feet, and limped towards the scene of the
struggle.  His limbs, cramped and numbed by his
bonds, were as yet almost powerless.  But seeing
Doubledick's legs for an instant disentangled from
those of his assailant, the old man suddenly threw
himself across them, pinning Doubledick to the
floor, and so putting an end to his struggles.  Dick
raised himself, keeping his hands on the man's
throat.  The heaving and writhing ceased.

While Dick still held him down, Penwarden
hobbled behind the barrels, carrying a lantern, found
the gag that had been used on himself, and brought
it back to turn it to account with Doubledick.  His
own hands were still too much numbed to tie an
effective knot, but he held the gag between
Doubledick's teeth while Dick made it fast.

All this time there had come through the hole in
the floor the murmur of voices.  Without relaxing
his grip, Dick leant over and peered down.  He
was just able to see that a boat lay beneath; the
hole was vertically above the sea.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" cried one of the boat's crew,
perceiving Dick's head, "ven come ze—ze packet?"

Dick withdrew.

"Answer," he said to Penwarden.

The old man tried to speak, but could give
utterance only to a hoarse whisper.  Whereupon
Dick, in a voice intended to be an imitation of
Doubledick's, replied:

"In a minute."

His imitation was so entirely unsuccessful that he
durst not say more.

The Frenchman's question had suggested a means
of dealing with Doubledick.  In attacking him, Dick
had no definite plan in his mind for subsequent
action.  He was concerned only to prevent
Penwarden from being lowered through the trapdoor.
But now that Doubledick was in his power, it struck
him that it would be simple justice to serve him as
he had intended to serve Penwarden.  He whispered
the suggestion to the old man, who received it with
a low chuckle.

"But they fellers down below will know un," he
murmured.

"Will they?  They are French; Doubledick has
never been to France.  They won't remove the gag,
probably, until they are well out to sea, and if I
know them, they won't put back and run the risk of
meeting the cutter, even if they do discover their
mistake."

"Ze packet, ze packet!" came the impatient cry
from below.

No more time was lost.  The cords that had
bound Penwarden were useless, but there was plenty
of sling-stuff on the tubs, and in a few seconds
enough was slipped off for the purpose.  Both Dick
and the exciseman were used to handling rope, and
though the latter's fingers were still somewhat
numb, he was able to lend some feeble assistance to
Dick in securing Doubledick to the plank.  At the
end of this there was a hook.  They attached this
to the rope over the windlass, and prepared to lower
the innkeeper to the hands waiting below.

At the last moment Penwarden slipped off the
crepe mask that still covered Doubledick's face.

"Look 'ee, Maister Dick," he said hoarsely.
"You can swear to the feller, so can I.  You be
goin' to Rusco, you miserable sinner, and if so be you
ever come back, I'll swear an information against 'ee
for unlawful detainin' of one o' the King's lieges,
and Maister Dick will kiss the Book and bear
testimony.  Good-bye to 'ee, and may the Lord ha'
mercy on yer soul."

They let the frenzied man down through the
trapdoor, and heard guffaws of laughter from the
Frenchmen as they received their expected packet.
The boat pulled off towards a lugger that lay a
few cables' lengths from the cliff.  The prisoner was
hauled up the side; the men climbed on board
and hoisted the boat in; and in a few minutes the
lugger disappeared into the darkness.

It was not the time to enter upon explanations on
either side.  Penwarden was eager to follow up the
tub-carriers, Dick to release Sam.  When the
exciseman heard of the boy's situation, he yielded
with a sigh, and considered with Dick a means of
bringing Sam across the shaft.  They were not
long in deciding that the best plan would be to make
use of the quantities of rope at hand, and form a
running tackle by which the boy might be drawn
over.  This was soon done, and taking one of the
lanterns, they hastened back to the scene.

"Hoy, Maister, be that thee?" cried Sam out of
the darkness when he saw the approaching light.

"Yes, and Mr. Penwarden is with me.  We are
coming to bring you away."

"Praise and glory be!  I did think I'd never see
daylight again.  Have 'ee got a true and proper
bridge?"

"You'll see.  Run back to the cave and bring two
staves and our guns."

They waited at the brink of the shaft until Sam
reappeared.

"Now drive the staves into the floor," cried Dick.

"I can't.  It be hard stone."

"Well then, go back to the cave again and bring
some of those big pieces of rock on the floor."

Sam went obediently.  Instructed by Dick, he
arranged a number of the rocks, four or five feet
deep, to form a sort of platform.

"Now knot this rope to the staves," said Dick,
flinging it across.  "Put it behind the rocks, and
pile more rocks on top to hold it down."

While this was being done, he made the other
end of the double rope fast to a large boulder near
the head of the shaft.

"Now, Sam, all you have to do is to clasp the
rope and let yourself down.  We will do the rest."

"Be it firm and steady?" asked the boy anxiously.

Dick hauled on the rope; it was held firm by
the rocks.

"There, you see 'tis quite safe.  All you want is
a little courage; it will not take half a minute to
get you across."

"I'll send summat fust to prove it," said Sam.

He withdrew a few paces into the passage, and
returned, carrying a long, flat box.  This he hitched
to the rope.

"Haul away, Maister Dick, and let me see wi'
my own eyes."

The box was drawn to the further side in a few
moments.

"Now are you satisfied?" asked Dick.

"Iss, fay; and I've some more boxes that had
better go fust."

Four boxes and the two guns were hauled across
before Sam consented to venture himself, and then
only because he feared he could carry no more when
he got to the other side.

"'T'ud be a sin," he said, "to leave all these
silks and satins behind."

"How do you know the boxes contain silks and satins?"

"'Cos I opened 'em and felt 'em in the dark.
'Twas like strokin' a cat's back, wi'out no fear o'
scratches.  You'll be sure and not let me drop
into the pit, Maister?"

"Yes.  Come along; I want my supper."

"Be-jowned, and so do I.  Here I come."

He grasped the rope, let himself gently down,
and was hauled to the other side.

"Oh, Maister Penwarden," he cried as he landed,
"I be 'nation glad to see 'ee safe and sound.  Wheer
have 'ee been all this time?  You have gied us all
a terrible deal o' trouble."

Penwarden growled.

"Never mind about that, Sam," said Dick.  "Our
trouble is well repaid, and we had better get home
as soon as we can."

"True.  If you go first and turn the lantern so's
it do gie me a light, I'll be able to carr' these boxes
wi'out tumblin' and breakin' my head.  So for
home-along."

On the homeward way Dick related his adventure.
The old man said nothing until he heard of the
discovery of lace and silks.

"Ah!" said he, "and these boxes that young Sam
be carr'in' on his head are filled with silks and laces,
I s'pose."

"Iss, fay," cried Sam exultantly, "and noble
gowns and pinnies they will make, to be sure."

"Well," said Penwarden, "then I seize 'em in
the King's name."

"Rake it all!" exclaimed Sam.  "Did the King
buy 'em?  Did he bury 'em?  Did he find 'em?
No, the King be a good man, but 'a never did no
free-tradin' in his life, I reckon, and we won't part
with 'em, will we, Maister Dick?"

"I know my duty," said Penwarden, "and seized
they be.  Resist at yer peril."

"Daze me if I don't wish ye'd been carr'd to
France," cried Sam.  "Arter what we've been
through for 'ee, too!"

A wordy war ensued that lasted until they
reached the door of the Towers, where the boxes
were deposited for the night.  It required a
peremptory command from Mr. Polwhele next day
to induce Penwarden to relinquish his claim on
them, the old man then being more than ever
convinced that the world was a strange mix-up.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Petherick makes a Discovery`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH


.. class:: center medium

   Petherick makes a Discovery

.. vspace:: 2

About an hour before Doubledick was embarked
for Roscoff, a group of men employed by Mr. Polwhele
as his assistants stood on the bridge spanning
the stream that flowed through the village.  It was
freezing, and they stamped and swung their arms to
keep themselves warm.

"'A said he would jine us by half-past nine
o'clock," said one.

"Well, church-clock has tolled the half-hour, and
'tis gashly cold.  What shall us do, neighbours?"
asked a second.

"Go home-along, say I," a third answered.  "He
be a true man of his word.  Half-past nine, 'a said;
half-past nine 'a meant, and if he bean't here 'tis a
plain token he bean't a-comin'!"

"I tell 'ee what, neighbours," said the man who
had first spoken.  "We'll gie un five minutes' law,
as near as we can guess it by trampin' forth and
back; then we'll wend up-along to Dower House
and axe un for orders.  I'll be sworn he be fillin' up
his inside wi' high meat and noble drink."

"Ay, and maybe figgy pudden or squab-pie,"
said another, licking his lips.  "Do 'ee think, now,
we bein' pore men all, they'd gie us a croust and a
nibleykin, like the rich gaffer and Lazarus?"

"Jown me if we don't go straight as a line and
see.  Hey! step out, souls all."

They hurried into the village and up the hill,
arriving at the Dower House about ten minutes to
ten.  The house was brightly lit, and from within
came sounds of laughter.

"Sech merry doings bean't for we poor souls,"
remarked one of the men despondently.

"True, neighbour Pollard, we bean't all portigal
sons," said another.

"You be a bufflehead, sure enough.  The portigal
son in the Book comed home-along a beggar in
rags, arter swallerin' pigs' wash."

"Ah well, I must ha' been thinkin' o' some other
holy man."

"True; Lazarus was the man.  Rap at the door,
neighbours, and make a goodish noise, or ye won't
be heerd through this yer racket."

Susan came to the door in answer to the knock.

"Please, ma'am, we be come," began Pollard, and
then found it necessary to swallow.

"Well I never!  What be come for?"

"For Maister Polwhele, wishin' 'ee no harm.  'A
said he'd jine us when clock said half-past nine, and
we'll be obleeged to 'ee if you'll say as we be come
for orders."

"Why, bless me, Mr. Polwhele went away when
clock strook nine, and as sober as a jedge."

"Well, souls, 'tis 'nation hard to traipse up that
hill for nothing at all.  We med as well go home-along
and get to our beds.  We be sorry to bring 'ee
out, ma'am, such a bitter cold night, but 'twas
to be."

"I wish 'ee well, poor souls," said Susan.

"A nesh young female," remarked one of the
men, as they departed.

"She'd as lief as not ha' gied us some grog if I
warn't sech a humble feller of my inches.  Hey! theer's
a deal lost in this world by modest men like we."

They shambled dolefully down the hill.  Half-way
down they were met by the boatswain and six
seamen from the cutter.

"Ahoy!  mates," cried the boatswain, "have ye
seen or heard anything of Mr. Mildmay?"

"Neither heerd a cuss nor seed the tip o's nose."

"Ah well, then.  I thought you might have,
coming along by Mr. Trevanion's house."

"Ha' ye seed or heerd anything o' Maister Polwhele,
now?"

"Neither bowsprit nor whistle.  No doubt he's
with our officer, dancing a hornpipe, or whatever they
do at fine gentlemen's parties."

"No, he bean't at Dower House.  We've been
to call for un.  'A told us he'd jine us on bridge
when church-clock strook half-past nine."

"That's curious, because Mr. Mildmay told us
the same thing, putting the cutter instead of the
bridge.  Isn't Mr. Mildmay up there, then?"

"That we don't know.  It didn't come into our
heads to axe for he."

"Well, we'd better go up and put the question.
Step out, messmates."

Mr. Polwhele's men returned with them, in the
hope that the bold sailors would ask for the grog,
which their modesty had missed.  The door was
again opened by Susan.

"Now, my dear," said the boatswain, "we won't
keep you in the cold.  Just answer a little question.
Is Mr. Mildmay aboard?"

"Dear life!  First Mr. Polwhele, now Mr. Mildmay.
No, sailorman, they both wented out
together, a minute arter clock strook nine."

"Bless your pretty face!  Well, messmates,
we've had our cruise for nothing, unless this lovely
lass will give us something to drink her health in."

"Here's Maister!" cried Susan, stepping aside
hastily as John Trevanion came to the door.

"Well, my men, what's this?" he asked genially.

"Please yer honour," began Pollard.

"Avast there!" cried the boatswain.  "Mr. Mildmay
was to come aboard by three bells, sir,
and seeing he was late, we made bold to come up
here for orders."

"Please yer honour," said Pollard, "Maister
Polwhele telled we the same, only 'twas nine and
a half bells wi' him."

"Well, my men, you're too late.  They both left
here at nine.  But come in: 'tis a cold night, and
you won't be the worse of something warm.  Susan,
bring a full jug and tumblers.  No one shall leave
the Dower House to-night without drinking success
to the mines."

The men tramped in, voluble with thanks.  Susan
served them each with a tumbler hot, and they left
a few minutes later, with a high opinion of
Mr. Trevanion's hospitality, and the comfortable feeling
that they had not made their journey for nothing.

Sunday morning broke bright, frosty, and clear,
the sun shining with a brilliance that belied the
cold.  About half an hour before church time, as
Mr. Carlyon was conning over his sermon for the
day, there entered to him the pluralist of the parish,
Timothy Petherick, constable, sexton, beadle, and
bell-ringer.  There was a scowl of annoyance upon
his face.

"Well, Petherick, what is it?" said the Vicar,
looking up.

"Yer reverence," said the man, "hain't I telled
'ee times wi'out number that the bats and owls do
make a roostin' place o' holy church-tower?"

"I believe you have."

"Well, yer reverence, it didn' oughter be," said
Petherick, smiting his fist.  "They heathen animals
didn' oughter take up their habitation in sech a
Christian place.  'Like owl in desert,' says the Book,
not 'like owl in church-tower.'"

"Clear 'em out, and be hanged to 'em," said the
parson.  "Yet, after all, they don't do any harm."

"No harm!  Dash my bones, yer reverence—God
forgi'e me for usin' Saturday words of a
Sunday—they do do harm.  Do 'ee think I can
strike a true Christian note out o' the bell?  No,
not I; 'tis all clodgy, like the spache of a man
that's rum-ripe, and all because some owl or
airy-mouse hev made his nest on the clapper, scrounch
un."

"Well, go up the ladder and brush it off."

"Theer 'tis, now.  What's happened o' the ladder,
I'd like to know?  Theer bean't no ladder.  'Twas
theer yester morn, but not a mossel o' ladder be
theer to-day.  'Tis bewitched, sure enough; some
pixy or nuggy, or little old man, hev sperited un
away in the night, for I squinnied up-along and
down-along, and never got a sight o't."

"Well, time is getting on.  Do your best,
Petherick.  Someone has borrowed the ladder, no
doubt, and will bring it back to-morrow.  You
should lock the tower door, and then this sort of
thing couldn't happen."

Petherick retired, a man with a grievance.
Entering the tower, he pulled at the bell-rope with
a scornful air, and, indeed, the sound given out was
little like the clear note that ordinarily summoned
the Polkerran folk to worship.

They were on the whole good church-goers.  At
least half the population were regular attendants,
some of the other half being Methodists, who
preferred going to "meeting."  The principal
smugglers were sound churchmen to a man, and
repeated the responses after the Commandments
with great fervour, especially after the eighth, when
they glared reproachfully at Mr. Polwhele in his
pew by the chancel steps.

In spite of the strangely muffled bell, there was
an unusually large congregation on this Sunday
morning.  The villagers, as their custom was,
assembled in the churchyard, waiting until the
Squire and his family had passed into the church
before they should follow to their seats.  Much
animation was observable among them this morning,
and when Dick walked up the centre path with his
parents, he guessed that many of them were
discussing the successful run of the previous night, and a
smaller number the supposed deportation of Joe
Penwarden.  There was no sign of perturbation
among them, whence he inferred that the disappearance
of Doubledick was not yet known.  It was not
uncommon for the innkeeper, after a run, to absent
himself for a day or two, so that, even if it were
known that he had not yet returned to the inn, they
would feel neither surprise nor alarm.  Nor was the
failure of their plot against Penwarden suspected.
He had not spent the night in his cottage.  Dick
had insisted that the old man should sleep at the
Towers, in order that he might have a good supper,
and that Mrs. Trevanion might bathe and anoint his
chafed wrists and ankles.

The Squire's large curtained pew was on the north
side of the chancel, Mr. Polwhele's next.  Opposite,
and facing it, was John Trevanion's.  The master of
the Dower House looked particularly fresh and
cheerful when he strode up the aisle to his place.
He smiled a greeting to one or two families with
whom he was acquainted, carefully avoiding his
relatives.

The village folk clattered in; the band in the
gallery above the door tuned up their instruments;
the toneless bell ceased to ring, and Mr. Carlyon
having made his solemn entry, the service began.

The Vicar had just come to the end of the second
lesson when, through a postern leading from the
tower, came Petherick with a face full of news.  He
hastened to the reading desk, touched Mr. Carlyon
on the sleeve, and said in a church whisper:

"Please, yer reverence——"

"Not now, Petherick," the Vicar whispered back.
"Go to your seat."

"I bean't in fault, and say it I woll," said the
man.  Then in a low tone, which, in the breathless
silence of the congregation, penetrated to the remotest
corner of the gallery, he added:

"Maister Mildmay and riding-officer was in
belfry, tied round the middle to bell."

"God bless my soul!" murmured the astonished
Vicar unconsciously.  "This is unseemly," he said
sternly: "'tis brawling.  Go to your place, Petherick."

The beadle marched to his seat under the pulpit
with the air of one who had spoken his mind and
scorned rebuke.  Those of the congregation who
had been in the secret tittered when he made his
announcement; the larger number, who were vaguely
aware that something had happened to the officers,
but did not know its nature, gazed at one another
with startled looks, which speedily changed to smiles.
The occupants of the Squire's pew alone preserved
their composure.  Mr. Carlyon's stern look silenced
the giggles and whispers of the frivolous, and the
service proceeded.

The hymn had been sung, the Vicar was in the
midst of the prayer for the King's Majesty, and had
just recited the words "our most gracious sovereign
Lord King George," when a man quietly entered
from the outer porch, and stood within the church
beneath the gallery.  The heads of the congregation
were bent forward, so that his presence was
unnoticed.  The prayer came to an end; everybody
said "Amen," but one voice rose above all the rest.
It was that of the new-comer.  Tonkin, in his pew a
few paces down the aisle, started and turned his head
like one thunderstruck.  A bruise was noticeable
on his right cheek.  All held their breath as Joe
Penwarden marched steadily down the aisle to his
seat near the riding-officer's.  As he passed the Vicar,
he raised his hand to the salute, then knelt quietly
at his place, where the coloured sunbeam, streaming
in through the south window, lit up his
weather-beaten face.

That dramatic scene in the church was talked of
in Polkerran for many a long year.  A deep hush
had fallen upon the whole congregation; even the
most fractious and fidgety children felt awed, by
they scarcely knew what.  Consternation held the
smugglers rigid in their seats.  John Trevanion's
face turned sea-green, and the smile by which he
tried to conceal from the congregation the mingled
emotions—surprise, rage, even fear—that possessed
him, did but reveal them the more clearly to two
pair of eyes in the Squire's pew.

Meanwhile the Vicar had turned over a few leaves
of his prayer-book.  Now, in a peculiarly solemn
tone, he began to read the thanksgiving "For peace
and deliverance from our enemies."  The words
rolled through the church: "We yield Thee praise
and thanksgiving for our deliverance from these
great and apparent dangers wherewith we were
compassed"; and at the close Penwarden's voice
was again uplifted in a loud and prolonged "Amen."

Mr. Carlyon was a man of tact.  He knew very
well that his people would be on tenter-hooks until
they could discuss these strange incidents.  It was
no time to preach to them.  A sermon was not an
essential part of the service.  Accordingly he finished
the order for morning prayer and gave the Blessing
without ascending into the pulpit.  The congregation
streamed forth.  Tonkin and his friends in a knot
hurried down to the inn, followed closely by the
tub-carriers of the previous night, whom Doubledick
had invited to meet him there.  John Trevanion
came out alone, and walked rapidly homeward,
without a word or a look to anyone.  The rest went
their several ways, except the Squire and his family,
and Penwarden, whom Mr. Carlyon invited to the
Parsonage.  There they found Mr. Mildmay and
the riding-officer sitting in the sunlight at an open
window, sipping toddy and taking snuff, thoughtfully
brought to them by the housekeeper.

"Upon my word," said the Vicar, on beholding
their wrathful countenances, "if I had not so lately
taken off my surplice I fear I should laugh.  What
is the meaning of it, gentlemen?"

It is regrettable, but the truth must be told.
The two officers, Mrs. Trevanion not having entered
the room, let forth a flood of language such as
certainly had never before been heard within those
walls.

"Come, come," said the Vicar, "remember my
cloth.  I will change my coat, and then ask you
to tell me calmly, as befits the day, all that has
happened."

"Your cousin, Squire——" began Mr. Mildmay,
on the Vicar's departure, but he choked.

"Is a consummate scoundrel, sir," said
Mr. Polwhele for him.

"He hoodwinked us," said the lieutenant.

"He trapped us," cried the riding-officer.

"Calmly, gentlemen," said the Vicar, re-entering.
"Now, Mildmay."

"He invited us to his house——"

"And laughed and joked," put in Mr. Polwhele.

"And made himself deuced pleasant," said Mr. Mildmay.

"One would think they were parson and clerk,"
said the Vicar under his breath.

The hint was taken, and Mr. Mildmay was able
to speak a few sentences without interruption.

"Well, we left together, Polwhele and I, at nine
o'clock, as we intended.  'Twas pitch dark.  We
had quitted the grounds but half a minute, and were
walking along by that stone hedge near the
mine-shaft, when we fell headlong over a rope stretched
across the road.  Before we could get to our feet,
hang me if a crowd of ruffians didn't fling themselves
upon us and well-nigh choke the breath out of our
bodies.  I hit out——"

"So did I," said Mr. Polwhele, his feelings
overcoming him.

"So did Polwhele.  I barked my knuckles."

"So did I," said Mr. Polwhele.

"So did Polwhele; but we might have been
fighting air for all the good we did.  The rascals
held us down while they gagged and roped us——"

"And never a word said," put in the riding-officer.

"No, confound it all!  'Twas too dark to tell
black from white.  All the scoundrels were masked,
and didn't breathe a word we could identify 'em by.
They roped us so that we couldn't move hand or
foot, and carried us we didn't know where——"

"Except that it was over plaguey rough ground.
I was jarred and jolted till I felt as if all my joints
were loose."

"So was I," said Mr. Mildmay.  "I knew no
more till I found myself being hauled up a ladder,
and then, confusion seize them! they lashed me to
the bell——"

"Mildmay on one side, I on t'other, the same
rope going all round."

"And there they left us all night.  I didn't get a
wink of sleep——"

"Nor I——"

"Till the morning, and as soon as I dropped oft,
that dunderhead Petherick must pull the bell-rope,
and I felt a great thwack in the small of my back,
and woke in a desperate fright.  There was a second
thump, and then it stopped, and we had peace for a
few minutes."

"That was when Petherick was telling me that I
really must clear the tower of owls and bats," said
the Vicar.

"Bats!" cried Mr. Polwhele.  "They were
whisking me in the face all night."

"And the owls were tu-whooing like fog-horns,"
said Mr. Mildmay.  "Then the thumping began
again, and I was jarred till I thought I should die.
Then there came a horrible noise of fiddles and
serpents and clarinets from below, and yowling
and growling, and soon after Petherick's head
appeared through the hatch, and he had the
impudence to laugh in our faces.  When he had
done cackling, he loosed us, and we crawled down
the ladder more dead than alive, and here we are."

.. _`"PETHERICK'S HEAD APPEARED THROUGH THE HATCH"`:

.. figure:: images/img-262.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "PETHERICK'S HEAD APPEARED THROUGH THE HATCH."

   "PETHERICK'S HEAD APPEARED THROUGH THE HATCH."

"And I lay my life 'twas John Trevanion's plot,"
cried Mr. Polwhele hotly.  "Never has such a
scandalous outrage been known in Cornwall before.
The Judas came to the door and bade us good-night,
and said he was sorry we must go, but duty must be
done—the detestable hypocrite."

"There was certainly more art in it than the
village folks are capable of," said the Vicar.
"By——dear me!  I am forgetting myself, but it brings
back to me the pranks we played at Oxford.  I
remember——but there, that's best told on a week-day.
You'll find it hard to prove anything against
John Trevanion, my friends."

"That's the cunning of the villain," said
Mr. Mildmay.  "But I'll keep a lynx-eye on him for
the future, and my gentleman will overreach
himself one of these days.  No doubt he made a fine
haul last night."

"He did so," said Penwarden, who had remained
in the background.  "The carriers made five trips
betwixt the cave and the well, and though I couldn'
see 'em, I reckon they ran summat nigh two-hundred
tubs."

"Bless my soul, where do you spring from,
Joe?" cried the riding-officer.

"Ah, sir, there be no spring left in my aged
frame.  I bean't what I was in my young days,
when I served wi' Lord Admiral Rodney.  But I'm
not dead yet, thanks to Maister Dick, and I'll be on
duty to-morrer, sir, same as ever."

"Come, Joe," said the Vicar, "we must hear all
about it.  I own I almost forgot where I was when
I saw you tramp up the aisle just now."

"The Squire's lady did say I wasn't to get up,
Pa'son, but when I woked and found 'em all gone-along
to church, I couldn't bide wi'out goin' up to
the House of the Lord like holy David, and givin'
my humble and hearty thanks to the Almighty."

He related how, at dead of night, he had been
hauled from his bed by half-a-dozen masked figures,
carried to the well, let down in a basket, and taken
to the place where Dick had found him.

"'Twas that 'nation rascal Doubledick at the
bottom of it," he said.  "When I laid there flat on
a plank, wi' a blanket atween my teeth, and a gashly
ache in every inch o' my body, I could ha' borne it
all like a holy martyr, but for the villain's tormentin'
mouth-speech.  'A tried his best to change his
tone o' voice, but I knowed un through it all.
'You be agoin' on yer travels,' says he.  ''Tis
uncommon spry in 'ee at yer time o' life, wonderful
brave in a old aged feller.  And ye'll lay yer bones
in a furrin grave, wheer ye'll bide till Judgment Day,
and when the trump wakes 'ee and they axe 'ee what
be doin' in a strange heathen land, ye'll have to tell,
'twas because ye couldn't keep yer tongue from evil
speakin', nor yer hands from pickin' and stealin'.
Ah! 'tis a sorrerful sight to see a old ancient like
'ee goin' the way to everlastin' bonfire for sech
ungodly deeds.'  So 'a went on a-rantin' and ravin'
till I come nigh bustin' wi' the rage inside me.  But
I reckon he sings another tune now.  'Tis he hev
gone on his travels, and he dussn't show his face
here no more, for 'twill be transportation if he do."

It was Dick's turn to recount the steps of his
discovery, and he learnt from Penwarden the
explanation of the only point that still puzzled him:
why he had found the front door of the cottage
unlocked.  Penwarden said that one of the
kidnappers had opened the door to keep a look-out.
The presumption was that, after locking the back
door behind his comrades when the deed was done,
he had merely closed the front door, probably
because he was in haste to rejoin them.

While Dick told his story, the Vicar was turning
over the yellow leaves of an old leather-bound
manuscript book.

"Ah!  I have it," he exclaimed at length.  "This
is the diary of William Hammond, vicar of this
parish eighty years ago—material for my poor
starveling history, Trevanion.  You have seen his
name on the tablet in church.  Listen.  'To-day I
read the burial service for seven men of this parish,
to wit, Anthony Hallah, Francis Hocking, John
Tregurtha, John Maddein, Richard Kelynack, Paul
Tonkin, Thomas Rowe, who 'tis supposed were
overwhelmed in the late landslip beyond St. Cuby's
Cove.  Their bodies have not been recovered, but I
yielded to the entreaties of their families that I
would recite the solemn office of the Church, that
their souls might rest in peace.'  Do you see the
story in this?  The poor fellows were smothered
while running a cargo into the cave which Dick
found blocked up.  Naturally the place was shunned
by the smugglers, and I daresay it was years before
a new generation made for themselves the hiding-place
Dick has discovered.  No doubt it is in the
part of the cliff that bulges over the sea.  They
must have hollowed out the chamber, and pierced a
hole in its floor, and you might have searched for
ever, Mr. Mildmay, without perceiving from below
the trapdoor with which it was concealed.  No
doubt, as Dick suggests, they have traded on the
superstitions of the people in regard to the ghost at
the well, and the fact that they seldom needed to
use the hiding-place has helped them to preserve
their secret.  This will be a terrible blow to the
smuggling hereabouts, and 'tis an extraordinary thing
that it should be due to Dick, whose intervention
has been brought about so strangely."

"Confound it, Dick, you ought to be in my
place," said Mr. Mildmay with a rueful look.
"Here have I been dashing about in the cutter, and
Polwhele riding up and down, and all the fuss and
fury not half so effective as your quiet use of your
wits.  'Tis a dash to one's proper pride."

"There was a great deal of luck about it, sir,"
said Dick.  "If Sam hadn't overheard the conversation
between John Trevanion and Doubledick, we
might have puzzled our wits for years without
getting at the truth."

"Ah!" said Mr. Carlyon with a chuckle, "and
there's a lady in the case as usual.  I understand
that Sam takes a brotherly interest in Mr. Trevanion's
maidservant—a very good girl, behaves well in
church, and seems most attentive to my sermons.
Upon my word, Squire, we owe something to John
Trevanion after all."

"Humph!" grunted the Squire.  "What does
the Book say, Vicar?  'The wicked diggeth a pit,
and falleth into it himself.'  That is true in the case
of Doubledick, at any rate."

"And he's no loss to us," said Mr. Polwhele.
"Without a doubt he hid that ruffian Delarousse.  I
suppose they'll now be hob-a-nob together in
Roscoff.  What's that at the window?"

He sprang up and put his head out.

"Do 'ee feel better now, sir?" asked Petherick,
sympathetically.

"What are you doing there, Petherick?" asked
the Vicar, recognising his voice.

"I wer just a-comin' along to tell 'ee wheer I
found ladder, yer reverence.  'Twas in the ditch
over beyond the linney, and be-jowned if I wouldn'
give a silver sixpence, poor as I be, to know who
'twas carr'd un theer.  We must clear out these
owls and airy-mouses, to be sure."

"Well, set about it to-morrow," said the Vicar,
closing the window.

"I'll be bound the fellow has heard all that we've
said," cried Mr. Polwhele.

"Then you may be sure it will be all over the
parish to-morrow," said Mr. Carlyon.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A High Dive`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH


.. class:: center medium

   A High Dive

.. vspace:: 2

The failure of their carefully-laid plan afflicted
the smugglers with a numbness of dismay and
stupefaction, and robbed them of all power to
appreciate the success of the trick played on the
revenue officers.  Tonkin bitterly reproached
himself for leaving the shipment of Penwarden to
Doubledick and undertaking the seizure of John
Trevanion's guests.  Moreover, honest and
simple-minded as he was, a tiny seed of suspicion was
beginning to germinate in his mind.  Before John
Trevanion came home, the freighting had been done
by Tonkin on a modest scale in co-operation with
Delarousse.  Now, however, John Trevanion had
taken the lead.  For some reason, which none knew,
and only Doubledick suspected, he had thrown over
Delarousse, and did business with a rival and enemy
of his in Roscoff.  Having more capital than Tonkin,
whose recent losses had indeed been crippling, he
could buy more largely and employ more men, so
that Tonkin found himself in a position of galling
subordination.  As Trevanion had said to Doubledick,
the big man did not care to play second fiddle.
He was beginning to wonder whether the jovial
master of the Dower House was quite so good a
friend as he seemed.

The escape of Penwarden was a blow, the more
crushing because so mysterious.  After church on
Sunday, Tonkin and his fellows foregathered with
the tub-carriers in the Five Pilchards, where
Mrs. Doubledick attended to them in her husband's
absence.  The young farm labourers had been in
complete ignorance of the presence of Penwarden
behind the stacked barrels.  His projected deportation
was the secret of Tonkin and a few trusty
friends, who knew better than to run the risk of
being betrayed by an informer.  They were still
anxious to guard their secret, and being unable to
discuss the matter freely in the presence of the
carriers, they made themselves so unpleasant that the
latter presently betook themselves in dudgeon to the
Three Jolly Mariners.  But even when the important
people had the taproom of the Five Pilchards
to themselves, they were at a loss.  In Doubledick's
absence no light could be thrown on the mystery.

"Do 'ee know wheer yer man be, Mistress?"
asked Tonkin of the gaunt woman behind the bar.

"I do not," she replied, "but 'a will come
home-along in a day or two, to be sure.  He loves his
home, does Doubledick."

"Well, you ought to know, if anybody."

"Hey, my sonnies," said a voice at the door, and
Petherick entered.  "I be come to jine ye in yer
laughter and merrymakin'."

"Then you be come the wrong road," said Tonkin
gloomily.  "We be downcast and dismal."

"Ay, mumchanced and mumblechopped," added
Nathan Pendry.

"You do surprise me!  Never did I see anything
that tickled my ribs so much as they two King's
servants lashed to the holy bell.  I don't care who
the man is, 'twas a merry notion.  But good now!
I know what yer dark thoughts be.  'T'ud make
angels weep and wail, so 'twould.  To think that
Cuby's ghost will walk never more!"

"Oh, Cuby's ghost be jowned!  If ye do know
anything, tell it out without hawkin' and spettin',
constable," said Tonkin.

"Well, neighbour Doubledick be a lost soul this
day, that's sartin," said Petherick.

"My Billy be dead!" shrieked Mrs. Doubledick,
sinking into a chair and rocking herself to and fro.

"No, no, Mistress," said Petherick.  "It bean't
gone so far as that.  Dry yer eyes, woman.  He
bean't a corp, 's far 's I do know, but never will ye
see un again, no, never."

"Name it all, constable, don't spin it out so
long," said Nathan Pendry.  "Put the 'ooman out
of her misery."

"Well, I will.  Neighbour Doubledick be this
day in Rusco."

"Dear life!" exclaimed Mrs. Doubledick.

"How do 'ee know that, constable?" asked Tonkin.

"I heerd it all wi' my own ears.  Seems as if Joe
Penwarden was to go, but the voyage wer too much
for his old aged stummick, so he and young
Trevanion sent neighbour Doubledick instead."

He then repeated what he had overheard at the
window of the Parsonage, his audience listening in
wrath and amazement.

"So ye see," he concluded, "he dussn't show his
face hereabouts again, for they two will swear to him
afore Sir Bevil, and neither might nor power can
save un.  Seems to me as ye've met your match in
young Squire."

This opened the floodgates of rage, and the room
rang with execrations and threats of vengeance.  At
last Tonkin declared that he would sail to Roscoff
next day, hear Doubledick's version of the matter,
and learn whether the innkeeper himself admitted
the impossibility of returning from his exile.
Meanwhile he bound all those present not to disclose
their knowledge of what had happened.  He felt
that the ignominious failure of the scheme would
make them all a laughing-stock, which was especially
to be avoided now that a score of miners had
been imported into the village by John Trevanion.
The men loyally kept the secret, even Petherick
restraining his gossiping tongue, for he had a
wholesome fear of Tonkin.

Next morning, therefore, Tonkin sailed away in
his own lugger, beating out against a stiff breeze.
An hour or two later, Mr. Mildmay paid a visit in
the cutter to the scene of the night's events, seized
the tubs still left in the smugglers' den, broke up
the windlass, and blocked up the tunnel leading to
the well.

Next afternoon Dick and Sam launched their boat,
and sailed out to fish at some distance from the point
of the Beal.  Meeting them on the cliff, Penwarden
advised them to keep their eye on the weather.
The sky was threatening, and the boat, while safe
enough on a calm sea, had not proved her capacity
to ride out a storm.

Sam appeared to be in low spirits.  Usually
talkative, he had scarcely spoken to Dick on the
way from the house, and had indeed not been visible
since breakfast time.

"What's the matter, Sam?" said Dick, as he sat
at the tiller, noticing the boy's gloomy face as he
rowed to assist the sail.

"Nawthin'," replied Sam curtly.

"But there is.  Your face is as long as a fiddle.
Something must have upset you.  What is it?"

"Well, if I must tell, I will.  My poor heart be
broke."

"That's bad.  What broke it?"

"The Mistress."

"My mother!  What has she done?"

"'Tis not what she does, but what she says.  Oh! 'tis
terrible hard for poor folks in this world."

"I agree with you.  We are all pretty poor at
the Towers."

"That's why I feel it.  Some poor folks can have
noble raiment, others can't, and drown me if I can
see the why and wherefore."

"Don't talk rubbish."

"'Tis not rubbish.  Hevn't Mistress got a fine
new sealskin coat?  Didn't she wear it to church
yesterday?  Didn't she look like a queen, and make
all the women's eyes open as wide as saucers?  And
there was Maidy Susan, poor young thing, lookin' as
plain as a sparrer beside her."

"Well, you wouldn't expect to see a servant-maid
as fine as the Squire's wife."

"Iss, I would so, when her might be.  I showed
they silks and satins to Mistress, and telled her I
had broughted 'em for Maidy Susan.  'No, indeed,'
says she; 'quite unsuitable for a girl in her station
o' life.'  'Why for, please 'm?' says I.  'Because
I say so,' says she; 'I never heerd o' sech a
thing.'  Be-jowned if I can see why.  Pretty things be fitty
for pretty females, and I don't care who the man is,
Maidy Susan would look as fine in 'em as Mistress
do in her noble sealskin."

"Fine feathers don't make fine birds, they say,"
remarked Dick with a smile.

"No, nor fine coats don't make old women young
and pretty.  They only make 'em look fatter."

"Sam, don't be impudent."

"Bean't impedence, leastways, not meant for sech,
as you know well.  It be truth," insisted Sam.
"Can 'ee deny it?  I axe 'ee, bean't Susan a pretty
maid?"

"She is, I own."

"Well, then, there you are."

This appeared to Sam a clinching argument.  Dick
laughed.

"I'll speak to Mother," he said.  "Perhaps she
will let Susan have a little silk for high days and
holidays.  But you know the story of the jackdaw that
dressed up as a peacock and was pecked to death by
the peacocks it went amongst?"

"Never heerd o't, and I don't believe it.  Peacocks
be sech silly mortals.  Howsomever, if ye'll
speak to Mistress I'll say no more, for she'll do
whatever you tell her."

By this time they were far out in the bay.  They
cast their lines overboard, and caught one or two flat
fish; but sport being very slow, and the wind
increasing in force, after about an hour they decided
to return.

Another boat, meanwhile, had put out for the
same purpose.  It contained Jake Tonkin and Ike
Pendry.  The two boats passed within a few yards
of each other.

"Afeard of a capful o' wind," said Jake with a
sneer to his companion, loud enough to be heard on
the other boat.

"Ay, they'll 'eave up afore they get ashore,"
rejoined Pendry.

Dick paid no attention to them.  Running in
behind the Beal, which sheltered him from the
wind, he found the sea in Trevanion Bay so calm
that he began to wonder whether he had not been
over-hasty in putting back.  They landed, moored
the boat, and carried their meagre catch to the
Towers.

"They may jeer," said Dick, as he steadied himself
against the wind, which on the cliff-top blew
with the force of half a gale, "but they'll run in
themselves pretty soon, you'll see."

Having handed the fish to Reuben, they left the
house again, and made their way along the Beal,
somewhat curious to see how the two fisher-lads
were faring.  Jake's boat, an old tub, as crazy as
that of Dick's which had been destroyed, was tossing
and rolling in a way that must have rendered fishing
a very uncomfortable occupation.

"They're a couple of jackasses," said Dick.  "The
wind is getting up every minute.  Look at that!
That gust nearly capsized them."

"I reckon they be showing off," said Sam.  "Ah! they're
putting back arter all, and 'twas time."

The boat's head was turned for home.  Dick and
Sam walked to the end of the promontory, whence
the sea on both sides was in full view.

"'Twill be a noble sight to see 'em cross the
reef," said Sam.

"Oh, they won't try that," said Dick.  "The
tide is too low.  You can see the rocks every now
and again through the breakers.  They will make
for the fairway."

The wind was now blowing with terrific force, the
gusts smiting the boys, exposed as they were, like
the fists of some unseen gigantic boxer.  They kept
their feet with difficulty.  Sam's hat was whirled
away, and rolled and bounded along the Beal at the
speed of a hare.  The surface of the sea was broken
by innumerable little white ridges, and at intervals
one of these was seen to be the crest of a huge
wave, which reared itself, and before it fell was torn
into shreds of spindrift.

Jake Tonkin's boat ran clear of the headland
towards the harbour, and, having got what he
apparently considered to be sufficient sea-room, he
hoisted his lug-sail, and steered direct for the
fairway.  It seemed to the two watchers on the Beal
that the wind had been maliciously awaiting this
opportunity of mischief.  A more than usually fierce
gust ripped the sail loose; the boat staggered, spun
round, and drifted broadside to the sea.  The two
lads in her seized their oars, and after great exertion
brought her head once more towards the shore.
But in a few moments one of them started baling,
then resumed the oars, only to ship them almost
instantly afterwards and bale out again.

When the sail was carried away, the boat was
about a third of a mile from the spot on which Dick
and Sam stood.  Her progress towards the harbour
had been extraordinarily slow, though the wind was
behind her.  Dick guessed that she had sprung a
leak, and when the baling became continuous, he
realised the extreme peril of her occupants.  Every
moment she was in danger of being swamped.  He
watched with excitement, not unmixed with anxiety.
She drew gradually nearer, but with a sluggish
heaviness of movement that bespoke her water-logged
condition.  Another twenty or thirty yards
would bring her within the shelter of the reef, in
which case the danger of being swamped would be
over, unless the leak gained upon the lad energetically
baling.

A shout from the left drew Dick's attention
towards the jetty.  The lads' plight had been
perceived, and a large boat, manned by a crew of four,
was pulling off to their assistance.  If they could
hold their own for five more minutes they would be
taken off.  But just as Dick, thus calculating the
chances, turned from this momentary glance shorewards
to watch the labouring boat again, a great wave
broke over her, she disappeared, and the lads with her.

A quick look round, then Dick dropped to the
ground, unlaced his boots, drew them off, and flung
off his coat.

"Go to our den, Sam," he cried, "and fling over
the two barrels we use for chairs."

"You be never going to——"

But Sam's protest was unheeded and almost
unheard.  Dick was clambering down the steep face
of the cliff.  The fisher-lads could not swim;
scarcely a man in Polkerran was more skilled than
they; and it was plain that unless assistance came to
them at once they must be drowned, for the boat,
pulling out against wind and wave, could not reach
them in time.

Thirty feet above the sea, and almost exactly over
the spot where the boat had capsized, there was a
narrow ledge.  As a swimmer Dick was self-taught.
He usually plunged into the sea from a rock a few
feet above the surface; the dive he now prepared to
take was at least five times as great as he had ever
attempted before.  Fortunately the fairway was clear
of rocks, although the waves beat roughly against
the almost perpendicular cliff.  A momentary hesitation,
then Dick dived off.  He took the water cleanly,
but, somewhat dazed by the violence of the shock, he
went far deeper than a practised diver would have
done.  To himself, as to Sam, gazing at him
horror-stricken from above, it seemed a terribly long time
before he shot up to the surface.

But he emerged at last.  Shaking the water from
his eyes, he looked round for signs of the
fisher-lads.  Within twelve yards of him he saw the boat,
bottom upwards, and a boy clinging to the rudder.
A gust of wind whipped the spindrift into Dick's
eyes; for some moments he could see nothing more.
But then, five or six yards away, between the boat
and the cliff, he caught sight of an arm rising from the
sea, only to disappear instantly.  He struck out for
the spot.  In a few seconds a dark mass surged up
almost beside him.  Another stroke or two enabled
him to get a grip upon it before it could sink again.
Fortunately both for the drowning lad and his
rescuer, the former was by this time unconscious.
In the rough sea that tumbled about him Dick could
scarcely have fought against the struggles of a frantic
man.  In a trice he turned the lad face upward,
and, firmly grasping his collar with one hand, swam
on his back with his legs and one free arm.  Surely
he could hold out until the boat came up!  He
heard the shouts of the men and the splash of the
oars; it could not be far away.

There was a danger that he might be swept by the
waves against the frowning cliff, and knocked senseless.
To avoid this, he struck out furiously towards
the middle of the fairway, where the empty barrels
thrown down by Sam were floating.  In a calm sea
his strength might easily have endured the fatigue of
supporting a dead weight, but he knew that he was
being conquered by the tumbling waves, and the
blinding, choking spray that swept over him, it
seemed without intermission.  Again and again he
felt that he could never regain his breath.  The
struggle to do so weakened him far more than the
muscular exertion.  The dreadful conviction seized
him that he, too, was drowning.  But his grip never
relaxed; even when a dazed and helpless feeling
came over him, he kept the lad's collar firmly in his
clutch.  Then he was dimly conscious of a quiet
restfulness and content; and Sam, in frantic terror
above, saw his movements cease, and felt an agonising
certainty that his young master was lost.

.. vspace:: 2

When Dick came to himself, he found himself
lying in the bottom of Nathan Pendry's boat,
within a few yards of the jetty.  The rescuers had
come up in the nick of time.  Dick and the lad he
had saved were hauled into the boat together, and
the fingers of the former were so tightly clenched
that for some time it was impossible to separate the
two.  The overturned craft had drifted within a few
yards of the cliff, and the other boy still clung to it.
He was taken aboard, and meanwhile two of the
men used all the means they knew to restore the
others to consciousness.  Without waiting to secure
the capsized boat, they pulled with all speed for the
jetty, which was thronged with village folk, whom the
news of the accident had brought in hot haste from
their houses.

The dripping lads were taken out and carried to
the inn, where Mrs. Doubledick had made up a
roaring fire, and had blankets and hot brandy
awaiting them.  Sam, pale as a sheet, forced his way
through the crowd at the door towards his master.

"Oh, 'tis good to see 'ee safe!" he cried, almost
hugging Dick.  "Hev 'ee swallered much?" he
asked anxiously.

Dick was too weak to reply.  He began to laugh
childishly, for within a few feet of him, swathed in
a steaming blanket, sat his old enemy, Jake Tonkin,
even more feeble than himself.

"'Twas him ye did it for!" cried Sam indignantly.
"No one could ha' blamed 'ee if ye'd let the villain
drown."

Dick shook his head.

"Now, young Sam Pollex," cried Mrs. Doubledick,
"you be off!  Maister Trevanion don't want
'ee kiddlin' and quaddlin' about when he do feel
bad.  Just pick up his clothes out o' that plosh o'
water and spread 'em on this chair-back.  Then go.
We'll send him home-along in a cart or a wheelbarrow
when he's better."

"Daze me if I go, Mistress!" cried Sam.  "Here I
bide till Maister be able to shail along, so I tell 'ee."

"Let the chiel bide," said Nathan Pendry.  "They
be like two twains in everything, mischief and all,
and they 'm best not parted."

"Iss, fay, my brother Ben was twain to me," said
Simon Mail, "and 'a quenched away when they took
un from me."

"Why, dear life now, neighbour Mail," cried
Mrs. Doubledick, "bean't it true, then, that yer brother
Ben was shot in the nuddick at some great battle in
Egypt, or other furrin land?"

"True, he was; but he couldn't ha' been if he
hadn't been parted from I."

"A-course not, ye chucklehead!" said
Mrs. Doubledick.  "If ye hadn't been parted he would
ha' been talkin' foolishness along with 'ee now.  Off
ye go now, neighbours all.  The lads will do better
wi'out ye, and there bean't no need to send over to
Redruth for a doctor."

"I wish 'ee well, Maister Trevanion," said Pendry
as he went out.  "Us do hate 'ee like p'ison, that's
true; but I don't care who the man is, 'twas a brave
deed, and that I'll stand by, so theer!"

The village folk were somewhat divided in their
opinion as to their future attitude towards the
inmates of the Towers.  The better sort, of whom
Nathan Pendry may be taken as a representative,
were so much struck by Dick's rescue of Jake, that
their feelings underwent a change.  They were not
at first very ready to show their altered sentiments
openly, but the leaven was beginning to work.  If
Dick, who had been so much persecuted, they
argued, had the generosity to risk his life on behalf
of one of those who had most injured him, it was
hardly credible that he should really be the spy and
informer he was suspected of being.  Others, however,
would not agree that the family was less open
to suspicion, so far as smuggling was concerned,
because of a single plucky act.  Their view was
supported by John Trevanion, who, having heard of
the incident, took care to drop seeds of depreciation
in the ears of such of the fishers as he encountered
here and there.

The former party received a notable accession on
the evening of the rescue.  Isaac Tonkin returned
home.  The first person he met when he set foot on
the jetty was Nathan Pendry, who told him what had
happened in his absence.  Tonkin was so much
surprised at the news that he did not wait to give an
account of his discoveries in Roscoff, but hurried at
once to his house, where, as Pendry had told him,
Jake had been put to bed.

"Be ye feelin' bad, my sonny?" he said with
rough tenderness, leaning over the boy.

"Not so bad as I did in the water, Feyther," Jake
replied.

"'Tis good to hear, my son.  You be safe as
a trippet, right enough.  And 'twas young Squire
saved 'ee!  Well, there's norra man in the whole
parish could ha' done it.  I reckon ye gied un a
proper word o' thanks?"

Jack did not reply.

"Did 'ee hear what I axed 'ee?  A-course ye
gied young Squire a good word for 's kindness?
Did 'ee, or did 'ee not?"

"I didn'."

"Ye didn'!  And why not?"

"Never did it come into my head."

"Well, it better come into yer head now, and
quick, or I'll have to ding it in.  Pull on your
clothes, and go up-along this minute to the Towers,
and say as you be tarrible ashamed o' yerself for
forgettin' to say thank 'ee.  Get on with 'ee!"

Jake had to get up there and then, and set off on
his errand.  He had not been gone five minutes
before his father, who had been walking restlessly
about, suddenly went down into his cellar and
brought up a keg of brandy and a large canister
filled with tobacco.  Then he rapped on the wall,
and hearing a faint "Hallo!" in answer, he
shouted:

"Be that you, Ike Pendry?"

"Iss, 'tis I."

"Come-along in; I want 'ee,"

When the lad entered, Tonkin handed the keg
and canister to him, saying:

"Carr' them things up to Towers for me, my son.
Axe for Squire, and tell un they be a present from
Zacky Tonkin, go along now."

Ten minutes after Ike started with his load,
Tonkin, as restless as ever, banged the table with his
great fist, startling his meek little wife, and cried:

"Drown me if I don't do it!"

"What, Zacky, my dear?"

"Go up-along myself and thank young Squire.
Name it all, hain't he saved our only boy, Betty?
A man can't do less than say thank 'ee, I don't care
who he is."

He thrust on his hat, and set off in haste.  At the
top of the hill he overtook Ike, who, laden as he
was, had walked slowly.

"Stir your shanks, Ike," said he.  "Here now,
I'll take keg; you keep canister."

They went on together.  At the Dower House
they came up with Jake, who was shambling along,
feeling anything but comfortable at the thought of
the impending interview.

"What, slug-a-stump!" cried his father angrily.
"Bean't theer yet?"

"Seeming not," said Jake.  "I be tired."

"Well, my son, ye'll just step out a bit quicker,
or I'll have to take a loan of the Squire's whip."

All three now proceeded until they came to the
Towers.

"Be Squire to home, neighbour Pollex?" asked
Tonkin of Reuben, who opened the door.

"Iss sure; but I reckon he don't want to see 'ee,
Zacky Tonkin," replied the old man.

"Maybe, but I want to see he, and ye can tell un so."

Reuben departed.  In a minute he returned.

"Squire says ye're to step in," he said, sourly.
"For me, I'd shet the door in yer face, and well you
know why."

Tonkin and his companions were led to the living
room, where sat the Squire and his wife.

"Well, Tonkin, what can I do for you?" said
the Squire pleasantly.

"Nawthin' as I know on, Squire, thank 'ee kindly.
My respects, my lady."  He turned his hat
awkwardly between his hands.  "The truth is,
Squire," he went on, "I b'lieve I'm the feyther or
an ungrateful young feller.  I be real vexed to think
he didn' say a word o' thanks to Maister Dick for
what he done for un, and he hev got to say it now,
or I'll leather un.  Med I see young Maister?"

"Not to-night, Tonkin.  I sent him to bed, and
there he'll stay."

"Then maybe ye'll carr' it for me, sir.  Now
Jake, make yer bob and say yer say."

Jake touched his forelock, but stood in lubberly
silence.

"What, can't 'ee find yer tongue?  Now, hearken
to me, and say what I say.  If you please,
Squire——"

"'If you please, Squire——'"

"I be truly thankful——"

"'I be truly thankful——'"

"As Maister Dick saved me from being
drownded."

"'As Maister Dick saved me from being drownded.'"

"Purticler as I didn' deserve it."

"'Purticler as I didn' deserve it.'"

"Good now!  I mean it, sir, and so do he.
And I've brought 'ee a keg of cognac and a tin o'
bacca—bought with honest money, Squire; and I
axe 'ee to take 'em as a little small offering from a
man who's a feyther like as you be."

"Thank you, my man," said the Squire, his face
kindling with pleasure.  "I appreciate your thanks,
and so will Dick: and I shall appreciate your gift, I
assure you.  Jake isn't much the worse for his
ducking, I can see."

"And I hope Maister Dick bean't either," said
Tonkin.

"Not a bit.  He'll be as well as ever after a
night's rest.  Jake should learn to swim, you know."

"And I woll, if Maister Dick'll larn me," said
Jake suddenly.

"Well, I don't know about that," said the Squire,
with a slight reserve in his manner.  "You see,
there has been some feeling lately——"

"See now, Squire," interrupted Tonkin bluntly,
"answer me a plain question, man to man.  Did
you, or anybody belongin' to 'ee, ever spy or inform
on we honest free-traders?"

"That's a question you ought to be ashamed to
put to me," said the Squire warmly.  "Do you
think a Trevanion would ever do such a thing?"

"Well, no, I didn' think so till——  Howsomever,
I'll say no more o' that.  I axe yer pardon, and I
hope ye'll let bygones be bygones, and that's said
honest."

"With all my heart."  The Squire extended his
hand to the smuggler, whose grip made him wince.

"That's brave and comf'able," said Tonkin.
"And now I wish 'ee well, sir, and you, ma'am, and
if so be as Maister Dick 'll larn Jake to swim, I'll
be proud, and so will he."

The Squire showed the three men out, and they
returned home well satisfied with their interview.
Tonkin was soon the centre of a group of his
particular friends in the parlour of the Five
Pilchards, to whom, after announcing that he would
believe no more "'nation gammut," as he put it,
about the Squire and his son, proceeded to relate the
issue of his visit to Roscoff.

"I hain't brought Doubledick back wi' me," he
said.  "For why?  'Cos he warn't theer!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Bargain with the Revenue`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH


.. class:: center medium

   A Bargain with the Revenue

.. vspace:: 2

About eight o'clock that same evening, while
Tonkin was still conversing with his intimates in the
parlour of the Five Pilchards, a horseman rode
up to the house occupied by Mr. Polwhele on the
south cliff.  His seat was not that of an accomplished
equestrian, and his manner of dismounting would
have given some anxiety to anyone who had a
regard for him.  The long cloak he wore, with the
collar turned up almost to the eyes, incommoded his
legs, and only by clutching at his patient steed's
mane did he avoid a fall.

The house stood alone, and its solitary situation
was a source of satisfaction to the traveller.  A
light within, and a full moon without, gave him a
reasonable assurance that the riding-officer was at
home.  Accordingly he hitched the bridle to a hook
placed for that purpose in the wall beside the door,
and knocked.  Mr. Polwhele was a bachelor, and it
happened that the woman who was housekeeper,
cook, and housemaid in one, had gone into the
village, so that he opened the door himself.

"Well?" he said, peering at the close-wrapped
figure that stood on the threshold.

"'Tis I, Maister Polwhele," said the man, at the
same time turning down his collar.

"Doubledick!" exclaimed the astonished officer.
"Well, of all the——!  You'd be safer in France,
my man."

"Iss, maybe; but I be come home, and I'd like
a word with 'ee, Maister."

"Well, there's no warrant out for your arrest, so
I suppose you——; yes, come in.  I don't
understand this at all."

Doubledick followed the riding-officer into the
room where he had been reading.  He carefully
shut the door behind him, offered Mr. Polwhele a
pinch of snuff, and took one himself, then sat down
rather stiffly.

Half an hour later he emerged from the house,
remounted his horse, and rode away, not northward
in the direction of his home, but eastward along a
bridle path across the moor.  In a quarter of an
hour, however, he turned to the left, skirted the
village, passing about midway between it and the
church, and continued for some time in the same
direction.  Then once more he struck to the left
and came by-and-by to the high-road, at a point
between the Towers and the Dower House.  He
turned into the drive leading to the latter, but
instead of reining up at the front entrance, he passed
round the house to the back, and having again
awkwardly dismounted, he rapped on the kitchen door.

"Oh, 'tis you, Maister Doubledick," said Susan,
when she opened to him.  "Folks said you'd gone away."

"So I had, my dear; but I be back-along, as you
can see wi' yer pretty eyes.  Now tell me, be the
Maister to home?"

"Yes, he be in his room, rayther poorly."

"And be he alone?"

"Yes, but 'tis not for long, folks say.  We'll
have a mistress afore long, and i hope she be likeable,
that I do."

"Well, now, that's new news, to be sure.  And
who be the woman?"

"She bean't 'zackly a woman.  'Tis Sir Bevil's
darter, seemingly, and she be a maid younger nor I,
they say."

"So she be, to be sure.  Dear life!  And I never
heerd o't.  Here's a shillin' for your news, to buy
'ee a fairin'."

"Thank 'ee, Maister Doubledick, but I shan't
need un for a fairin'.  I'm to have a fine gown o'
silk, only think o't!"

"A present from Maister John, I s'pose?"

"No; 'tis to be from Sam Pollex, that young boy
as lives up at Towers.  Didn't 'ee know what a
treasure he found?"

"What was it, my dear?"

"Why, he and young Squire were rummagin' in
some cave yonder—I don't know 'zackly wheer—and
they come upon boxes full o' silks and satins,
all the colours o' the rainbow.  Young Sam be goin'
to gie me enough for a gown—a kind young feller,
that he is."

"Well, then, if ye don't mind, my dear, I'll take
back that shillin', seein' as ye're so well purvided, and
gie 'ee a groat instead.  Bean't no good to waste
money, be it?  And now, will 'ee tell yer maister I be
come for a word wi' un?"

Susan went away with a cloud upon her face.

"Maister will see 'ee," she said when she returned.
"Take yer groat, Maister Doubledick; some day ye
may need it more nor I."

Doubledick pocketed the coin with a chuckle, and
followed her along the passage to her master's room.

"This is amazing, Doubledick," cried Trevanion,
when the door was shut.  "I never expected to see
you again."

"Hee! hee!  Rusco bean't fitty for everyone,
Maister John," replied the innkeeper, with a
meaning look.  "Ye be took bad, the maidy says."

"Oh, 'tis nothing but a fit of the dismals.  How
in the world did you get away?"

"It do seem a miracle to 'ee, I s'pose.  Why, fust
man I seed when they put me on quay was a old
friend o' yourn—leastways, 'a used to be sech.  He
be a good friend o' mine, too, 'cos I did un a good
turn a while ago.  He don't speak our Christian
tongue very well, poor soul, but I made un understand
a mistake had been made wi' me, and he
showed his true friendship by bringing me over to
Megavissey.  I rid over from there, and plaguey
stiff I be in the jints."

"But you're in great danger; don't you know
that?  You made a terrible bungle of the job, my man."

"True, but them above had a finger in it.  I
bean't sorry as I've seed Rusco, not I.  And as to
danger, well, Maister John, I'll speak to 'ee as a
friend.  The feller I named—no, to be sure, I didn'
name un, but 'tis all one—the Frenchy do seem to be
mizzy-mazy in his head.  He telled to I of a feller
called Robinson, and seemed to have got it in his
furrin noddle that 'twas the same name as Trevanion,
or fust cousin to 't.  He axed a tarrible lot of
questions about un, wheer he lived, and what he did
wi's days and nights, and seemed to I as if he'd got
a rod in pickle for un.  Jown me if I didn' think
'a wanted to make a call on this Robinson feller, and
'ud be tarrible wisht if 'a didn' find un to home."

Doubledick kept his eyes fixed upon Trevanion's
face, but if he had expected to see any sign of
uneasiness, he was disappointed.

"I take no interest in your friend or what he
wants," said Trevanion.  "I am more concerned
about you, Doubledick.  You're not safe here, you
know."

"That's what I've come to see 'ee about," returned
the innkeeper.  "But truly I be a bufflehead; I
ought to ha' named un to 'ee, in course I ought.
His name is Delarousse, Maister.  And to tell 'ee the
truth, thinkin' he was a bit over coorious in the
questions he axed, I telled un a thing or two as wer
a trifle crooked, I did.  I telled un how this Maister
Trevanion as he thought was Robinson was often
away from home, and how 'a dwelt in a big house
on the cliff called the Towers.  He axed I if the
Towers was near the top of a hill, and I telled un
'twas a goodish bit away, Maister Robinson—Trevanion,
I mean—havin' come into the property.
Thinks I to myself, if he comes to Polkerran one
fine day a-caprousin' and makin' a stoor, 't'ud be just
as well he went up-along to Towers and showed his
tantrums to the cussed folk theer.  What do 'ee say
to that, Maister John?"

"You are talking a deal of nonsense, Doubledick,"
was the answer.  "Don't you understand that as
soon as 'tis known you are back in the village you'll
be arrested for kidnapping Penwarden?"

"Oh, ay, that's what they say, is it?  But don't
'ee think, now, we could persuade the officers o' the
law to leave me bide?"

"Quite impossible.  Penwarden and my young
cousin will swear to you, and there has been such a
stir about the matter that Sir Bevil or the Vicar will
sign the warrant the moment they hear of your
arrival."

"Maybe.  But money do make the mare to go,
Maister, and seems to I, if so be you'd help, we
med put a clapper on evil-speakin' tongues.  A-course
't 'ud need a pretty big sum to do it proper,
but theer, what's that to 'ee, rollin' in money as you
be?  And I know well ye'll put yer hand in pocket
to help a poor feller in a quag, purticler as he've
done summat for 'ee, in Polkerran and Rusco both."

"I'll be hanged if I do," cried Trevanion, at last
shaken out of his composure.  "You made a
wretched bungle of a simple job, and you'll have to
take the consequences."

"Good now!  I like to hear a man speak fine and
brave, but I hev a brave mouth-speech o' my
own."  Doubledick's tone was as smooth and deferential as
it had been throughout the conversation, but an
onlooker might now have observed that he was
beginning to show his teeth.  "Zacky Tonkin,
now," he proceeded: "I reckon he'd be fain to
know why Delarousse warn't no longer the feller to
do trade with: that bit o' knowledge med be worth
payin' for.  And Sir Bevil: iss sure, his darter be a
nesh young female——"

"Confound you!  What do you mean by that?"
cried Trevanion.

"Ah! little small birds do carr' little small seeds,
they do.  High persons like Sir Bevil be mighty
purticler when 'tis question o' lawful matrimony."

Trevanion, red with anger, rose from his chair and
came towards Doubledick threateningly.

"Ah! dear life!" continued the innkeeper,
unflinchingly, "and there be Mounseer Delarousse,
too, thankful for what I done for him.  It did vex
me tarrible to mizzle un; but a word can put that
right, and let un know the true dwellin' o' that
coorious feller Robinson.  In course his grudge
agen Robinson bean't nothing to I, but he do seem
tarrible sour and rampageous.  Howsomever, let
every man fight his own battles.  Now I'll go
home-along, and I wish 'ee well, Maister."

He rose, took his hat, and moved towards the door.

Trevanion looked after him for a moment irresolutely,
then stretched his hand towards the bell-rope.

"Stay, Doubledick," he said, "you must take a
thimbleful before you go."

"Not for me, Maister," replied the innkeeper,
with a virtuous expression of countenance.

"Nonsense, man.  It won't poison you.  You
have read me quite wrongly, my friend.  Did ever a
man take offence so easily!  You've come badly out
of my little test, but I'll overlook it.  I've a deal
more patience than you....  Susan, bring the decanter
and glasses.  Hot, Doubledick?"

"Well, I don't mind if it be, this chilly night.
But 'tis gettin' latish; it must be only a nibleykin,
Maister."

"Now, Doubledick," said Trevanion, as they
sipped their liquor, "I'm not the man to refuse to
help a friend, even if he shows himself only a
fair-weather friend after all."

"I knowed it," cried Doubledick heartily.  "A
little small voice inside telled me ye were only
a-tryin' me, and 'ud show yerself in yer natural true
colour at last.  Well, Maister, ten pound won't do
it; no, King's servants do hev high notions,
be-jowned to 'em.  Twenty?  I be afeard it wouldn'
go far.  'Tis well to do a thing handsome when 'tis
to be done.  Fifty?  Iss, a man can do summat wi'
fifty.   Fifty pound 'll keep a many tongues quiet, and
I'll be dazed if I don't snap my fingers at justices,
sheriffs, hangmen, and constables, if I do hev fifty
pound to my hand."

Trevanion rose and went to a cabinet in a corner
of the room.  Unlocking it, he opened a drawer,
standing with his back to Doubledick.  There was
a sound of rustling paper.

"'Tis a monstrous sum," he said, half turning.

"Ah, 'tis, to be sure," said Doubledick feelingly,
"but King's officers do hev' a tarrible big swaller."

"Well, here you are," said Trevanion, recrossing
the room.  "I'm not the man to refuse a friend."

"So ye said afore.  Thank 'ee.  'Tis atween us
two, in course; my mouth is shet.  But there's
another thing, Maister.  Did 'ee know as old Joe
and young Dick brought a heap o' silks and satins
out o' the old mine?"

"The deuce they did!" cried Trevanion in
astonishment.  "Where did they get them from?"

"That I can't say.  But old mine do belong to
'ee, surely."

"It does.  Whatever they have found is my
property.  How do you know this, Doubledick?"

"The little small birds, Maister.  Well, I've
telled 'ee for yer good."

"I'll not forget it.  Egad, they shall hear from me."

When Doubledick left the house a few minutes
later, he carried the bundle of crisp white notes snug
in his breast-pocket.  He said good-bye very cordially
to his host, and, mounting his horse, rode boldly
along the highway and down the hill to the inn.

Most of the smugglers had returned to their
homes, but Tonkin, Nathan Pendry, and one or two
more still remained in the inn-parlour, with their
legs stretched out towards a genial fire, their long
churchwarden pipes filling the room with clouds of
smoke.  Mrs. Doubledick had gone to bed.  No
other visitors were to be expected at this hour, and
the company would let themselves out at their own
time.  The woman was torn between hope and fear.
Tonkin had learnt in Roscoff that Doubledick had
left with Delarousse; and Mrs. Doubledick was
relieved to know that her husband had escaped the
miseries of confinement in a French prison; but she
was troubled lest he should fall into equally rigorous
hands at home.

Doubledick entered the room quietly.

"Well, neighbours all," he said behind their backs,
"a man's home be the fittiest place for un, I
b'lieve."

The men sprang up in amazement, grasped his
hand, smote him on the back.

"What did I tell 'ee!" said Tonkin.  "Didn' I
say neighbour Doubledick was a clever feller, and
't 'ud take a deal o' cleverness to get over he?"

"Ye did, there's no denyin' it," said Simon Mail.
"Ah, neighbour Doubledick, you was born wi'
noble intellects."

"But you be a terrible bold feller," said Pendry.
"There'll be a warrant out for 'ee, and ye'll be
carr'd to Trura jail, as sure as I be alive."

"If 'tis to be, 'tis; and rayther would I be jailed
in Cornwall than in France," replied Doubledick.
"But I won't be jailed nowheer, I b'lieve, and I'll
tell 'ee why.  Theer was only two as seed me—Joe
Penwarden and the young tom-holla at the Towers.
Well, they dussn't swear to me."

"Why not, neighbour?" said Pendry.

"Because they been up to jiggery theirselves,
hee, hee!"

"Speak yer meanin' plain, for the sake o' poor
simple I," said Mail.

"Hee, hee!  I mind I telled old Joe he'd hev to
answer for pickin' and stealin', and so 'a woll.  Do
'ee know, neighbours, they brought out o' well a
noble store o' raiment, purple and fine linen, as
pa'son says?"

"Never!" ejaculated Pendry and Mail together,
Tonkin smoking in silence.

"Iss, 'tis true as Gospel.  They brought out
silks and satins and who knows what all, and look
'ee, friends, that be thievin'!"

"I don't know about that," said Tonkin.

"But I do know," said Doubledick positively.
"We hain't used the well for ten year, we all do
know that.  Last time 'twas only 'bacca and brandy—not
a bale o' silk or passel o' lace.  Well, then,
this stuff bein' buried in the earth, or we'd ha' found
it, I reckon it had been theer ever since the landfall,
hunderds o' years ago, in yer grandfer's days,
Zacky.  See then, the true owner o't, arter all this
time, be the owner o' the land, and that's Maister
John—would ha' been Squire till three months
ago.  Hee, hee!  They ha' stole Maister John's
proputty."

"I've heerd tell o' what clever folks call treasure
trove," said Mail, "and that belongs to King Jarge."

"King Jarge ha' got quite as much as he can do
with up-along to Lunnon," said Doubledick, "and
I don't care who the man is, they silks and satins
do belong now to Maister John.  Well, do 'ee think
they wicked robbers will hev the impedence to swear
agen a honest free-trader like me?  They'll never
do it.  Maister John will claim the goods and
threaten 'em wi' the law, and that'll be enough to
keep their mouths shet, trust me."

"How did this wonderful bit o' knowledge come
to 'ee neighbour, you bein' away and all?" asked
Mail.

"Ah! little birds, Simon, little small birds,"
replied Doubledick with a knowing look.

"Then maybe you do know another 'mazin' bit
o' news," said Pendry.

"Maybe I do.  Tell to me, and then I'll tell 'ee."

"Why, young Squire this very day did save
young Jake from bein' drownded, didn' he, Zacky?"

"Iss, fay," said Tonkin, "and I went up-along
to-night to say thank 'ee, as a true Cornishman
oughted.  And I tell 'ee what, friend, we been all
wrong about Squire informin' and all that.  I axed
un plain, man to man, and he telled me I oughter
be ashamed to think sech a thing, and I believe un."

"But did he deny it?" asked the innkeeper.

"Well, no, I couldn' go so far as to say that."

"Ah, Zacky, you be a simple plum-baked feller,
to be sure.  Ye don't know the windin's and
twistin's o' these high gentry.  Plain simple souls
like 'ee don't know what eddication do for a man.
That young whelp of Squire's do go to pa'son and
larn all the wisdom and cleverness of ancient men of
old; 'a can twist 'ee round his finger, I b'lieve."

Tonkin looked troubled.  Doubledick had such
a reputation for knowingness that his opinion carried
weight.

"Well, time will show," said Tonkin.  "I tell
'ee one thing, that I won't hev a hand no more in
anything agen Squire, not till I do know sartin-sure.
What do 'ee say, Nathan?"

"Iss, I say the same.  Let's be sartin-sure, that's
what I say," replied Pendry.

Doubledick puffed his scorn of such simple-mindedness.

"Well, I be tired, neighbours," he said.  "Riding
a-hoss-back from Megavissey hev well-nigh scat me
in jowds" (by which he meant, broken him in
pieces), "and I yearn for my bed.  We'll see what
we will see, I b'lieve."

The company broke up.  The fishers went their
way; Doubledick closed the door behind them, and
raked out the fire.  Before he ascended to his
bedroom he locked his bundle of banknotes in a strong
box which he kept under the stairs, and might have
been heard chuckling gleefully.

Next morning the inn was early besieged by a
crowd of fishers who had heard of Doubledick's
return, and were agog to learn all the circumstances
from his own lips.  A little later the newly-imported
miners arrived, and, later still, as the news travelled
farther, farmers, millers, and dairymen flocked into
the village.  Doubledick rubbed his hands with glee
at the trade he was doing.  Except to his intimates, he
explained very little.  To the questions of the others
he replied only by nods and winks, and they at last
ceased to interrogate him, remarking one to another
that he was a real knowing one; nobody could get
round him; "a wonderful feller, truly, for see how
soon he hev slipped away from France, wheer many
a good man hev rotted in prison since these 'nation
wars began."

There were many who expected that before the
day was out Doubledick would be arrested and
carried before Sir Bevil, and a throng of idlers hung
about the inn in anticipation of this exciting event.
But no constable, soldier, or sheriff's officer appeared,
and at nightfall the innkeeper's reputation was higher
than ever.

Two men believed that they knew the reason of
the authorities' forbearance.  John Trevanion fondly
supposed that the banknotes with which he had
parted had found their way into the pockets of
Mr. Mildmay, Mr. Polwhele, and Joe Penwarden.  In
those days the bribery of revenue officers was not
infrequent.  Tonkin, on the other hand, suspected
that the Squire had persuaded Penwarden not to
prosecute, in order to consolidate the better feeling
between the village and the Towers to which Dick's
rescue of Jake had given birth.  The actual reason
was known to four men alone: the revenue officers,
Penwarden, and Doubledick himself.

About midday Sam Pollex came rushing up to the
Towers from the village with the news of Doubledick's
return.

"Nonsense," said Dick; "he wouldn't dare show
his face again."

"Name it all, Maister, didn' I see un with my
own eyes?" cried Sam.  "There he be, down-along
at his kiddly-wink, more bustious nor ever, or may
I never speak again."

Dick hastened instantly to the little white cottage
on the cliff, where Penwarden had again taken up
his abode.

"Joe," he cried, bursting in like a whirlwind,
"Doubledick is back!  Come with me to the
Parsonage; we'll get a warrant for his arrest."

Penwarden was eating his dinner.  He conveyed
a piece of fish to his mouth without showing any
sign of surprise.

"Back, is he?" he said.  "Ah, well!  Rusco
warn't good for his health, seemingly."

"It would suit him better than Truro jail.  Come
along; there's just time to get to the Parsonage and
back before my dinner."

"Not for a old ancient feller like me."

"Well, I'll go alone then; but they'll want two
witnesses, I believe, before any justice will commit
him."

"They will, I believe, but I won't be one.  No,
I couldn' bring myself to 't."

"What on earth do you mean?" cried Dick in
amazement.  "'Tis your duty to bring the villain
to justice."

"Villain he is, and I'd crack his skull as soon as
look at him.  But as to duty—I knows my duty,
Maister Dick, and my duty is to let un bide.
Besides, never could I face the stoor of appearin' in
a court o' justice.  Theer'd be lawyer fellers in wigs
and gowns, axin' me this, that, and t'other till I
wouldn' know whether I pitched on my head or my
heels.  But I'd fain fetch un a crack on the nuddick,
so as 'a couldn' stir for a fortnight."

"Oh, well, of course 'tis your business," said
Dick, somewhat offended.  "If you don't prosecute
him, I suppose he'll go free.  'Tis no concern of mine."

And he returned to the Towers, and told his father
that old Joe hadn't so much spirit as he thought.

Two hours before, Penwarden had received a visit
from Mr. Mildmay and Mr. Polwhele.  When they
informed him that Doubledick had returned, he
started up, seized his hat, and declared with great
vehemence that he would go straight along to the
Parsonage and get Mr. Carlyon's warrant for the
villain's arrest.  The revenue officers had much ado
to appease him, and only when Mr. Mildmay made
a strong appeal to his sense of duty as an old Navy
man did he agree to the inactive course proposed.

"If 'tis a matter of duty to the King, as ye say,
sir," he remarked, "I reckon I do know my duty as
well as any man.  Hain't I served with Lord Admiral
Rodney?  Not a man of us but did what he bid
at once, or he'd ha' knowed what for.  Did I ever
tell 'ee how the Lord Admiral spoke to me special
one day?"

"Well now, let me see," said Mr. Mildmay, who
had heard the story a score of times.  "Did you
ever hear it, Polwhele?"

"In Jamaica, wasn't it, Joe?" said the riding-officer,
who having been on the coast ten times as
long as Mr. Mildmay, had probably heard the story
ten times as often.

"No, 'twas on Plymouth Hoe, sir.  I was cruisin'
theer one day when who should I see beatin' up
but Lord Admiral Rodney, convoyin' two handsome
females—ah! as clippin' craft as ever I seed.  While
I was standin' by, all of a sudden he put up his helm
and steered right across my bows.  'Get out of the
way, you cross-eyed son of a sea-cook!' says he,
and the two females laughed like a brook in June.
Ah! 'tidn' every common mariner as could say he'd
been spoke to special by sech a fine man-o'-war as
Lord Admiral Rodney."

"You're right, Joe," said Mr. Mildmay.  "No
admiral at all, let alone a great man like Rodney,
ever spoke to me, worse luck.  Well then, you'll let
matters rest, old fellow, and you won't be sorry
for it."

"But I may crack un over the skull if he gets in
my way, I s'pose?"

"Well, yes, but not too hard; dead men tell no
tales, you know."

"I'll mind o' that, and not gie un a whole broadside.
Dear life!  What a mix-up of a world it is,
to be sure?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Last Deal`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH


.. class:: center medium

   The Last Deal

.. vspace:: 2

For a week or two there was a lull in events.
One day the Squire received a letter from John
Trevanion's attorney, demanding that he should give
up the property of his client which had been
feloniously abstracted from the abandoned mine.  The
Squire swore, a rare occurrence with him, and sent
Dick with the letter to his own lawyer in Truro.
Dick returned with a piece of news that staggered his
father.  The attorney had died suddenly a few days
before.  He was the holder of the mortgage on the
Towers and the Beal; it was almost certain that his
executors would demand payment of the advance.
For the first time the Squire was faced with the
absolute loss of his ancestral home.  He waited
some days in torturing suspense: then the dread
letter came.  The amount of a hundred pounds
must be paid within a month.

The Squire had not even a hundred shillings to
spare.  In deep distress of mind he walked to Truro
to consult another lawyer, and see whether the bond
could not be renewed or transferred.  He applied to
a young solicitor who had recently set up business
in the town, and who undertook to do what he could.
The Squire placed in his hands also the letter he had
received from John Trevanion's attorney.

A correspondence ensued between the two men of
law, with great ingenuity of argument and ample
quotation of authorities on both sides.  It did not
terminate until the precise question in dispute was
no longer of importance.  Meanwhile the Squire
retained the silks and satins.

With the approach of Christmas the vigilance
of Penwarden and his superiors became incessant.
At that season there was a great demand all through
the countryside for the wares of the free-traders, and
unless precedent was to fail, many a bale and keg
would be landed on the coast without paying dues
to the King's Government.

One dark night, Tonkin arrived in his lugger at
Lunnan Cove, a few miles south of the village, with
a fine cargo freighted jointly by John Trevanion and
himself.  Contrary winds having delayed him, he
arrived several hours later than had been arranged, and
found that the tub-carriers, evidently tired of waiting,
had gone away.  He dropped the tubs overboard in
the usual manner, taking their bearings carefully,
and returned for them on the following night.
To his surprise and bitter rage, when he explored
the bottom with his creeps, a strong force of
tub-carriers waiting on the shore, he failed to find a
single tub of the cargo so carefully laid.  All had
vanished.  If he had been on the spot a few hours
earlier, he would have seen them hoisted one by
one into the revenue-boats, and conveyed to official
sanctuary at St. Ives.

The smugglers were furious.  Some one must
have betrayed them.  Occasionally there were traitors
among them, but rarely, for the fate of an informer,
if discovered, was of such a nature as to deter others.
When they returned to the inn to drown their
disappointment and talk over the occurrence,
Doubledick shrugged.

"What about yer fine friends at the Towers now,
Zacky?" he said.

"Good sakes!  How could 'em know?" cried
the exasperated fisher.

"Oh, you simple soul!  Didn' I see yer Jake
a-fishin' along wi' young Squire only yesterday?"

"Rabbit it all!  Do 'ee mean to say 'tis Jake
that split?  Why, daze me, the boy didn' know
about it hisself, Doubledick; we kept it so close."

"Well, I only tell 'ee what I seed.  'T 'ud be
hard to b'lieve sech a miserable dirty thing o' Jake,
I own it.  In course he never done it, bein' a Tonkin;
'twas only my little bit o' fun.  But I don't care
who the man is, they folks up at Towers hev turned
preventives; norra one of 'ee woll make me b'lieve
different."

"Dear life!  Won't Maister John be in a gashly
passion!" said Simon Mail.  "He had more nor
you in it, Zacky, I b'lieve!"

"Iss, fay, he did.  Neighbour Doubledick loses
least; 'tis a mercy for 'ee, neighbour."

"So 'tis, Zacky," said Doubledick.  "Ah!  I was
right to bide quiet a while arter that journey to
France.  But name it all, I bean't goin' to bide
quiet for ever; I'll take a share in the next,
be-jowned if I don't, and I hope them above will
gie us better luck."

"Ay, Maister John will be in a rare passion,"
repeated Simon Mail.  "He be spendin' money so
free that 'twill be a blow to him, to be sure."

"True," said Pendry, "and spendin' for the
country, too.  Do 'ee think, now, as Boney will
come to these parts, neighbour Tonkin?"

"I wouldn' think so myself, but you never can
tell," replied Tonkin.  "'Tis a little small place,
wi' no great riches to tempt un; but that may be a
reason for 't.  We've no forts nor cannons nor
sojers to defend us, and Boney may choose the place
according; 't 'ud be easier to land here than at
Weymouth, where the King and all his high generals
sometimes be."

"What I say is, Maister John be a fine feller,"
said Mail.  "'Tidn' every gentleman as 'ud do what
he be doin'.  Why, he've had a dozen men from
Trura riggin' up iron shetters to his winders, and a
cart come t'other day wi' firelocks and pikes, and I
seed him only yesterday marchin' his miners up and
down in front o' the house, every man of 'em wi' a
terrible weapon o' some sort; and when he shouted,
up went firelock or pike, and seein' the guns all
pointin' at me, I run off as hard as my poor legs 'ud
move, for I didn' want to be hurted, not I."

"Ay, and I seed Petherick goin' up to Dower
House wi' a noble bell under his arm," said Pendry,
"and when I axed un about it, 'a telled me 'twas to
rig up in the roof, to gie the word o' warnin' to the
whole village if Boney was spied wi' all his horses
and men."

"And what's more," added Mail, "he hev took
three men-servants into house, purgy fellers they be
too, so's to hev a army to lead agen the enemy.
They'll eat a deal o' meat, they will, and sartin sure
he'll be in a passion at losin' money over this crop."

"Hee! hee!" laughed Doubledick.  "It do
make me laugh, neighbours, to think o' Maister
John leadin' a army agen Boney.  I'll go up-along
to-morrer and see this practisin' wi' pikes and
firelocks; 'twill do me good, hee! hee!  They miners
had better turn sojers out and out, for they'll never
get tin or copper enough out o' the earth to pay for
their keep."

Doubledick strolled up the hill next day, and
stood with a look of keen enjoyment on his face as
a score of miners drilled under Trevanion's direction.
At the close of the exercise he accosted Trevanion.

"'Tis a noble sperit, to be sure, Maister John,"
he said, "but daze me if I think yer new sojers
and yer iron shetters will keep out Boney and his
thousands and millions.  He's a tarrible feller, by
all accounts."

"'Tis every man's duty to defend his country so
far as he is able," said Trevanion coldly, beginning
to move away.

"Iss, sure," said Doubledick, keeping pace with
him; "and it must cost 'ee a tidy bit o' money.
But I be afeard it bean't much good.  Why now,
s'pose 'twas not Boney, but one of his simple
generals, or no sojer at all, but a plain feller like
me—or like Delarousse, say.  I say, s'pose Delarousse
took it into his head to hev his revenge for the
trade he've a-lost, to wipe off old scores, as ye may
say—jown me if he'd be flustered by a passel o'
miners or a shetter or two.  Howsomever, 'tis not for
me to say.  Ye do know more about the arts o'
warfare nor I, I reckon."

"Your tongue runs on, Doubledick," said
Trevanion with a hollow laugh.  His annoyance
was plain to see: the fellow was presuming on the
secret between them.

"Iss, I be forgettin' what I come to say," said
Doubledick.  "The folks at the Towers be at their
tricks again, seemingly."

"If I knew it!" cried Trevanion furiously.  "If
you catch young Dick, or that wretched follower
of his, spying, I hope you'll take care they don't
do it again.  You squared the officers on your own
matter; can't we keep them quiet on the trade?"

"Ah! that's different.  To jail me wouldn'
put money in their pockets, like seizin' a cargo.
I'm afeard 't 'ud take more nor the crop's worth
to put 'em quiet on that, Maister.  But there now! we
allers do hev ups and downs; maybe the ups will
beat the downs in the end."

That Doubledick's philosophy was well founded
was signally demonstrated a few days later.  Though
the loss in case of failure was severe, the profit of a
successful run was so high that success once in three
times was accounted satisfactory.  To recoup the
recent loss another cargo was freighted in Roscoff,
Trevanion, Tonkin, and Doubledick taking equal
shares.  The spot selected was the mouth of the
little creek four miles north of the Towers, where
Dick had launched his home-made boat.  Only a
few men, on whom the confederates placed absolute
reliance, were admitted to the secret.  The goods
were run ashore in complete safety, and each of the
three freighters pocketed a considerable profit.

Elated by this success, another run was arranged
a few days subsequently.  In this Trevanion had
the largest share, Tonkin ranking next, Doubledick,
Pendry, and Mail being involved to the extent of a
few pounds each.  The place was changed, a small
cove a little nearer the village on the south side
being chosen.  Mr. Mildmay had been called to a
spot ten miles distant, and everything promised
success.  Tonkin's lugger anchored off the
rendezvous, the goods were "rafted" ashore, and the
carriers had all shouldered their burdens, when a
dash was made on them by preventive men aided by
a troop of dragoons, and, after a sharp fight, only
one man got away with his tubs.

John Trevanion never appeared on the scene of
operations.  He was always kept well informed as
to the time and place of the runs, but it was his
constant policy to remain in the background.  On
this occasion, when he learnt of the second failure
within a week, he was exasperated beyond endurance.
He rode down to the inn, stormed at the smugglers,
and having learnt that Mr. Mildmay had been
summoned away by his own arrangement, merely as
a blind, he declared that either Jake Tonkin or Ike
Pendry had betrayed him to Dick, with whom they
now occasionally fished.  This accusation enraged
the elder Tonkin, and the two men would have
proceeded from recriminations to blows, if
Doubledick had not stepped in between them.

A week passed.  It was the Wednesday before
Christmas Day.  There had been some hesitation
among the smugglers, after the last failure, whether
to venture on what was usually the most important
run of the season.  At this time they found
customers for their wares much further afield than
usual.  But the prospect of large profits, and the
perpetual fascination of the trade, overcame their
doubts and fears, and early on this Wednesday
morning, before it was light, Tonkin sailed off in
the *Isaac and Jacob* for Roscoff.  Once more he
had equal shares with Trevanion, no others being
concerned in the run except as helpers.

On Wednesday evening, Doubledick left the inn,
and walked along the southward bank of the stream
in the direction of the church.  He had left word
that he was going to see Petherick about a Christmas
dinner which the Vicar was accustomed to give to
the children and young people of the parish, in a
barn upon his glebe.  He spent an hour or two with
Petherick in his cottage near the church, received
from him the Vicar's orders for squab-pie (a
hotch-potch of mutton, apples, onions and raisins, with
sugar and seasoning), "figgy pudden" (which is
Cornish for plum-pudding), and other delectables of
the season, and having arranged with the sexton the
commission to be paid him for passing on an order
which he could have placed with no one else, he
drank a parting glass and started ostensibly for home.
It was a fine night, moonless but clear, with
that crisp coldness in the air that exhilarates.  Instead
of walking along the road by which he had come,
Doubledick struck off to the left into a lane that
would bring him, after a long round, to the south
cliff.  There were no houses hereabouts, the church
being at least half a mile from the nearest dwelling.

When the innkeeper came to the spot where the
ground began to rise, he did not turn to the right,
along the path that led to the bridge over the stream,
and was the nearest way home, but trudged directly
onward, puffing a little as he went higher.  It was
very dark, or he might perhaps have seen a figure
silently stalking him.  Every now and again he
stopped to take breath and to glance in the direction
of the village.  At these times the shadowy figure
dropped down behind a furze bush, and there waited
until Doubledick, with a grunt and sigh, again went
on his way.

Presently he came to Mr. Polwhele's house on
the cliff.  He did not pass it by, nor approach the
front door, but stole to the window, where a light
shone through the blind, and gently tapped at it.
In a few moments the door opened.  Mr. Polwhele's
figure was for an instant silhouetted against the
light from a hanging-lamp in the passage.  Doubledick
entered quickly, and the door was shut again.

The silent form of the second man was motionless
and invisible in the darkness.  But when the door
was closed, it tip-toed swiftly across the grass, and if
a third person had been in the neighbourhood he might
have seen the head and shoulders of a fisher in strong
relief against the illuminated blind.  But there was
no spectator.  The fisher placed his ear against the
glass, and remained in that posture for several
minutes.  Then he withdrew, muttering his
disappointment, and posted himself behind a clump of
gorse a few yards away, where he could keep his eye
on the door.

"Well, Doubledick," said the riding-officer, when
he had given his visitor a chair, "'tis to be, then?"

"Iss, sir, and a big thing too.  Maister Trevanion
hev £200 ventured, and Tonkin the same."

"And where is it to be this time?"

"At the creek, sir, same as time afore last.  They
did so well then that they couldn' think of a better
place, the den bein' broke up."

"And when?"

"Thursday night, or ye med say Friday mornin',
accordin' to the wind."

"They mean to run, and not to sink, I suppose?"

"Iss, sure, sir.  Next day bein' Christmas, ye see,
they must hev the stuff carried off at once.  I'd axe
'ee, sir, not to lay hands on the men; seize the tubs,
in course, but I don't want 'ee to do any hurt to the
fellers."

"Well, I'll do what I can; but you know what
soldiers are.  They've been itching for months to
fight Boney, and they want to keep their hand in,
you know."

"True, sir.  Ah well! the carriers will run fast
enough; 'tis only Zacky Tonkin and the rest I be
afeard for; they'll fight, 'tis sartin-sure."

"You're a thorough-paced scoundrel, you know,
Doubledick," said the riding-officer.  "'Pon my word,
if it weren't my duty to stop smuggling by hook or
by crook, 'twould give me the greatest pleasure in
life to see you tarred and feathered.  I warned you,
you remember.  You'll be caught one of these days,
mark my words, and the money you're heaping up
won't save you then, my man."

"Hee! hee!" laughed Doubledick uneasily.
"Name it all, was there any other way to save
myself from jail?  'Tis a risk, I own it; it do gie
me the creeps in the night sometimes when I think
o't.  And be-jowned, sir, when you gie me the £50
for this job, I'll pack up my traps and go into other
parts wi' my wife, and spend my old age in peace and
quietness, if she'll let me.  Ye won't stop me, sir?"

"Not I.  'Tis dirty work, and I'd rather fight the
trade fair and square, 'pon my word I would."

"'Tis the last time, then, for me.  And now I
must be traipsin' home-along."

Mr. Polwhele accompanied him to the door.  On
the step Doubledick turned and said in low tones,
his words, however, being distinct in the clear night
air:

"Ye'll mind and not take Zacky, sir?  I hain't
no fancy for blood-money."

"I'll do what I can.  Good-night."

He stood for a moment or two watching the innkeeper's
receding form, then turned to re-enter the
house.  But it happened that, in the very act of
turning, he caught sight of a dark figure slinking
away from a furze bush in Doubledick's wake.  He
slipped into the house, turned out the lamps in the
passage and the room, and in a quarter of a minute
came out again, the darkness completely veiling his
movements.  With swift steps he followed the two
figures down the slope, drawing near to the second
of them under cover of the bushes.  Having assured
himself that Doubledick was being deliberately
shadowed, he bent low, rapidly made a circuit, and
concealed himself behind a clump which the stealthy
pursuer must pass.  As the man came abreast of him,
wholly engrossed in keeping the innkeeper in view,
Polwhele suddenly sprang out, caught his victim by
the throat so that he could utter no more than the
faintest gurgle, and bore him to the ground.  Then,
whipping out his pistol, he whispered:

"If you make a sound I will shoot you.  Get up
and come with me."

Keeping a firm hand on the fallen man's collar, he
lugged him to his feet, marched him back to the
house, and thrust him through the still open door,
which he bolted behind him.

"So 'tis you, Jake Tonkin," he said, as he relit
the lamp.

"Iss, 'tis I.  Let me go, Maister.  Doubledick
said 'twas I that split, the villain!  Let me go.
Scrounch me if the two-faced wretch don't suffer for
this!"

"I'm afraid I can't let you go yet, my son," said
the riding-officer.  "Now 'tis no good kicking or
shouting.  Remain quiet, and in a day or two you
shall go, safe and sound.  If you give trouble I
shall have to deal with you as your folk dealt with
Penwarden."

Jake sullenly submitted.  Mr. Polwhele gave
him supper, then locked him into a room where the
window was heavily barred.

"I am sick of this," he thought, as he returned
to his own room.  "'Tis well Doubledick is going,
or, by George, there would be murder."

Next morning Sam Pollex, going down to the
village to buy some raisins for a plum-pudding,
overtook Susan Berry, John Trevanion's housemaid.
"Aw, Ma'am, ye do look wisht, sure enough,"
said Sam, remarking the gloomy aspect of Maidy
Susan's usually merry face.

"And so I be, Sam," she replied, "I wish I were
to-home, I do."

"Now that be cruel to we, daze me if it bean't.
Why do 'ee wish sech a cruel thing, Ma'am?"

"Why, to-morrer be Christmas Eve, and there'll
be no ashton fagot, and no egg-hot, like us have
to-home."

"What be they, Maidy?"

"Don't 'ee know that?  Why, the fagot be made
of ash-sticks tied about wi' nine twigs, and on
Christmas Eve 'tis dragged to the Squire's hearth
and set ablaze; and then we do dance and jump for
cakes, and dive for apples in a tub o' water.  Oh,
'tis sech fun, you can't think!  And then we drink
egg-hot——"

"What's that, if it be so pleasin'?"

"Why, silly chiel, 'tis cider and eggs and spice,
made as hot as 'ee can drink it."

"Aw, I know what that is.  Mess is what we do
name it, and as for fagot, we do call that mock, only
it bean't sticks, but a mighty block o' wood.  Squire
don't hev it now, since he hev been so poor.  But
why don't 'ee axe yer maister if ye can do as ye do
to-home?"

"I don't know what be come to Maister.  He be
all hippety-like—looks as grave as a church owl, and
him goin' to be married, too.  Pa'son be goin' to
pray for un fust time o' Sunday."

"Well, marriage be a fearsome thing, I s'pose.
I seed a weddin' up-along at church once, and theer
was a little Noah's flood o' tears.  I don't think I'll
ever be married."

"You be only a chiel yet.  But there now, 'tis
ever since Maister brought they great lubbers into
house, and gied 'em guns and swords and I don't
know what all.  Seems he be afeard o' summat.
Do 'ee think that monster Boney will come and eat
the poor childer here, Sam?"

"Not he.  He dussn't do it.  Don't 'ee be afeard,
now, Maidy dear.  I'll look out for un, and if I do
see un I'll ring our bell so powerful loud that all
the brave men in the country will run to defend 'ee."

"We've got a bell, too."

"Not sech a banger as ours, I warrant 'ee.  I do
wish Squire were rich; then we'd hev the mock, and
a great big figgy pudden, not a little small one wi'
half a pound o' figs in it; and Squire would axe
'ee and all the country to come and join us, and
ye'd come in yer fine new gown that I'm goin' to gie
ye.  But theer, 'tis not to be, and 'twill only make
us wisht to think o't."

"Look 'ee see, Sam: what a throng o' folk!
Whatever is the matter?"

They had come within sight of the village green,
where a crowd of men, women, and children were
talking excitedly.

"What be all this stoor, Ike?" asked Sam of
the young fisher.

"Why, Jake Tonkin can't be found nowhere.
He wented up-along yestere'en to wood to get
some mistletoe, and never come back."

"Never come back?"

"No.  His mother be in a tarrible state, Zacky
bein' away and all."

"Sure 'a didn' go wi' Zacky to Rusco?"

"Now that's foolish.  Didn' I say 'a wented
for mistletoe yestere'en, and Zacky sailed off in
mornin'.'

"So 'a did, to be sure.  Here's riding-officer;
let us tell him."

Mr. Polwhele rode up into the midst of the crowd.

"Well, neighbours, what's to do?" he cried.

"Jake Tonkin be gone a-lost, Maister," shouted
a score of voices in answer.

"Lost, is he?  He's big enough to take care of
himself, surely.  Isn't he with his father?"

"No, Maister," piped a small boy.  "Zacky
Tonkin be——"

"Wisht yer clatter!" cried the child's mother,
catching him by the arm and shaking him.

"Who saw him last?" asked the riding-officer.

"Who seed un last?" repeated several voices.
"Here be Un Tonkin; she'll tell to we."

"'A wented last night to get mistletoe, sir," said
Mrs. Tonkin, with a pale, anxious face.  "Never
hev he stayed out all night afore, and I be afeard
something bad hev come to un."

"Oh, dear no!  I can't imagine anything of the
kind," said the officer, cheerily.  "Don't be
down-hearted.  He'll come home-along by-and-by as
large as life.  I'll ride to the wood and look about,
and tell my men to search too.  The young rascal!
Up to some mischief, you may be sure.  Go home,
my good woman, and don't distress yourself, and
you folks, instead of standing gossiping here, go and
hunt.  Christmas Day is coming, you know, and
we must have Jake back in time for the parson's
dinner."

But the day closed without the discovery of any
trace of the missing lad, and some of Mrs. Tonkin's
kind neighbours were already condoling with her on
the loss of her only son, and assuring her that
Zacky would be in a terrible way when he came home.

Mr. Mildmay and the riding-officer supped
together before setting out, the one by sea, the other
by land, for the scene of the expected run.

"Would to heaven we had never come to terms
with Doubledick!" said Mr. Polwhele.  "Never
again for me, Mildmay.  Set a thief to catch a thief,
they say, but I don't know how you feel: I feel
myself a mean rascal, old stager as I am at the game."

"Honestly, I agree with you, and having Jake
Tonkin mewed up here complicates things desperately.
The moment he is let loose he'll tell his father, and
if I know the man, Doubledick's life won't be worth
a snap of the finger."

"Well, I warned him.  I couldn't foresee that
Jake would come upon him in that accidental way.
Scheme as we will, Mildmay, there's a Power that
overrules us all."

"The best thing we can do now is to warn
Doubledick.  We've gone into partnership with the
fellow, and we can't in honour keep silence.  Give
him a chance to escape."

"You're right.  I'll call at the inn as I ride down,
and tell him we have Jake locked up here.  That
will give him about twelve hours' grace—time to
clear away bag and baggage."

When the lieutenant went aboard his cutter,
Mr. Polwhele entered the inn.

"Where's Doubledick?" he asked of the inn-keeper's
wife.

"He be gone along to Trura, Maister," she
replied, in her usual vinegary manner.

"What for?"

"Well, I don't know as it be any business o'
yourn, but 'tis to buy some figs for the pa'son's
dinner."

"Oh, well, if he comes back, tell him I want to
see him first thing in the morning, will you?"

"He hain't done nawthin' agen the law."

"I'm glad of that.  Don't forget my message."

Mr. Polwhele left, firmly convinced that Doubledick
had become suspicious and already beat a retreat.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Attack on the Towers`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST


.. class:: center medium

   The Attack on the Towers

.. vspace:: 2

That night the Towers was heavy with an
atmosphere of gloom.  The Squire had remained
the whole evening sunk in his chair, not reading, or
smoking, speechless, his head bent upon his breast.
He had heard from his lawyer that all efforts to
transfer the mortgage had as yet proved fruitless:
nobody wanted a bond on barren land.  The next
day but one was Christmas, and the Squire brooded
on the melancholy thought that it would be the
last Christmas he would spend in his old home.
Occasionally he glanced at the motto inscribed above
the lintel of the door:

   |  Trevanion, whate'er thy Fortune be,
   |  Hold fast the Rock by the Western Sea.

What a mockery the old legend seemed!  He had
held fast; now he felt as though some inexorable
power were unclenching his nerveless fingers.  And
the bitterness of his mood was intensified by the
foreboding that the old house, and his last rood of
land, would go, as all the rest had gone, into the
hands of the man who had disgraced his name, and
who bore him implacable enmity.

Dick went to bed early, sick at heart, unable to
endure the mute misery upon his parents' faces.
He meant to rise before it was light, for a purpose
which, he sadly felt, he might never accomplish
again.  It had been his custom for several years to
carry to the Parsonage on Christmas Eve a basket of
fish of his own catching, as a present to his good
friend the Vicar.  It was a poor gift, but he had not
the means to offer anything better, and Mr. Carlyon
was always pleased with it, regarding the spirit in
which the simple offering was made.

About an hour before dawn he wakened Sam, and
after nibbling a crust, the two boys set off.
Experience had taught them that this was the best time to
fish at so late a season of the year.  The air was
damp and raw, with scarcely any wind, and as they
issued from the house they shivered, and buttoned
their coats high about their necks.

"We must go to the Beal for some tackle, Sam,"
said Dick.  "That will warm us before we go down
to the boat."

"Iss.  I wish it were to-morrer.  Pa'son's dinner
will be summat to cheer a poor feller up, these wisht
and dismal times.  Do 'a think, now, Maister Dick,
as we'll ever hev a real Christmas randy up at
Towers, same as they do hev at Portharvan?"

"I'm afraid not, Sam.  I'm afraid we shan't spend
another Christmas at the Towers."

"Well, then, you and I had better go for sojers or
sailors.  I'm afeard I bean't high enough for a sojer.
But sailors get prize-money, old Joe says, and I'd
like that, 'cos then I could buy a thing or two for
Maidy Susan—and Mistress, too: I wouldn' forget
she.  Maybe I'd get killed, fightin' the French, but
dear life! it wouldn' matter much: we hain't got
many friends.  I don't s'pose Maidy Susan 'ud fall
more 'n two tears, or maybe three."

"None at all, I should think," said Dick.

"Oh, I don't think so bad o' she as that.  When
I seed her yesterday she said she wished I could go
to Dower House to-night.  Maister John be goin'
to a randy at Portharvan; he'll kiss his young
'ooman under the mistletoe, I reckon."

"And Susan wants you to go to the Dower House
and kiss her, I suppose?"

"Now that's too bad, Maister.  We bean't
neither of us so forward as that.  Maidy said she'd
like me to go up-along and gie un some o' my
merry talk, but jown me if my tongue 'ud run merry
wi' things so bad up to home."

"You couldn't go: Father would never allow it.
You'll have to be satisfied with the Vicar's nuts and
candy, Sam."

They came to their den at the end of the Beal, and
remained there for some little time arranging their
tackle in the wan glimmer preceding the dawn.  Then
they emerged, and climbed up beside the big boulder
to take a look at the sea, over which a thin mist hung.

"Isn't that the *Isaac and Jacob*?" said Dick,
pointing to a vessel tacking to make the fairway
between the cliff and the reef.

"Iss, sure.  Tonkin be come home wi'out a cargo,
seemin'ly, unless he hev run it a'ready."

They watched the lugger creeping slowly toward
the harbour.  The tide was on the ebb, and there
was not enough depth of water upon the reef to
allow the vessel to head straight for the jetty.  As
she crept into the fairway Dick was struck with the
unusual appearance of her deck.  Amidships it was
almost clear except for two or three men; but, herded
under the low bulwarks on the weather side, out of
sight from the harbour, were a score or more of
men whom he recognised by slight indications in
their dress to be foreigners.  Almost instinctively
Dick slipped behind the boulder, pulling Sam with him.

"That's very curious," he whispered, standing so
that he could see without being seen.

On the lee side of the vessel, he noticed arms, legs,
and here and there a red-capped head protruding
from beneath tarpaulins, thrown with apparent
carelessness on the deck.  Two or three heads also
appeared in the hatchway, suggesting that other men
were on the companion below.  But what struck
Dick most of all was the fact that although Nathan
Pendry held the tiller, there lolled against the
bulwarks near him a stranger whose hat and coat
were manifestly Cornish, but whose lower garments
were as unmistakably of foreign cut.  He was a
short, stout man, and he held a pistol, which was
pointed at the helmsman.

Dick was so much fascinated and wonderstruck
by this extraordinary spectacle that for a few moments
he neither spoke nor stirred.

"Be it Boney at last?" whispered Sam, his eyes
wide with alarm.

"No, no: Boney would bring thousands.  But
I can't make it out.  We'll run home, Sam, and
tell Father."

Creeping round the boulder, and dipping their
heads as long as there was any chance of being
observed from the lugger, they set off at a
breakneck run for the Towers.  Dick dashed up to the
Squire's room, and knocked at the door.

"Come in," said the Squire.  He was
awake—had indeed lain sleepless almost all night, thinking
miserably of his affairs.

"Father," said Dick, entering, "Tonkin's lugger
has just put in with a gang of Frenchmen on
board.  Pendry is at the helm; there's a fellow
standing over him with a pistol.  I didn't see
Tonkin."

"What on earth does that mean?" cried the
Squire, starting up.  "Get me my boots, Dick; I'll
pull on some clothes, and go up on the roof to take
a look at them."

In a few minutes the Squire, Dick, and Sam were
behind the parapet of the principal tower, the Squire
with his telescope in his hand.  Lofty as their perch
was, the jetty and the lower part of the village were
not in sight, being concealed by the contour of the
hill.  But they could see the upper houses and the
cliffs beyond; the church tower and the red roof of
the Parsonage away to the left; and almost every
yard of ground between the hilltop and the Towers.

"Shall I ring bell, Maister?" asked Sam.

"No; wait a little.  We don't want to make
ourselves a laughing-stock.  There's nothing in
Polkerran to make it worth any Frenchman's while
to—Ha!  I see it all.  'Tis a trick of Mildmay's,
the sly dog.  Do you see, Dick?  He has disguised
himself and his men as Frenchmen, and pounced on
Tonkin's lugger with a fine crop aboard.  Ha! ha!
The neatest feat I ever heard of."

"I'm rather doubtful about that, sir," said Dick.
"The faces I saw weren't Cornish."

"It would be a poor disguise if they were.  You
may be sure I'm right, and we shall have Mildmay
coming up to breakfast by-and-by with a fine tale of
tubs.  I slept badly, Dick; I'll return to my bed
for an hour or two."

Dick remained with Sam on the roof.  He was
not at all convinced that his father was right.  It
was difficult to conceive what object a band of
Frenchmen could have in attacking so small a village,
yet he felt sure that they were Frenchmen, and that
their visit was not an ordinary smuggling affair.
After a long look through his spy-glass he said to
Sam:

"There's no smoke, no sound of firing—-no
noise at all.  We can't see anything here, Sam; let
us take a run to the Beal again."

But at that moment he saw a man rise over the
crest of the hill; immediately behind him came
others.  They were armed with muskets and
cutlasses, and advanced rapidly and in a manner
that suggested a definite goal.

"Off to the turret and pull the bell, Sam!" cried
Dick.  He rushed downstairs to his father's room
again.

"Thirty or forty armed men are marching from
the village, sir," he said.  "I think they're coming
to attack us."

"Bless my soul, what fools they must be!" said
the Squire with a mirthless laugh.  "There's nothing
here worth firing a shot for.  Ah! there's the bell.
We'll see if 'tis more effective than last time we rang
it.  And we'll give them a warm reception, my boy,
by George we will!  Go and bring Reuben to me."

So crowded was the next hour, and so conflicting
were the accounts given subsequently, in all honesty,
by actors in the drama, that the writing of a clear
and coherent narrative is a matter of some difficulty.
Mr. Carlyon diligently questioned everyone who
could throw a light on the separate incidents, and out
of this material compiled a long chapter for his
history of the parish.  But the prolixity of his style,
and his habit of interrupting his narrative with
classical parallels and references to abstruse authors,
render his book quite unsuitable to the present age,
and make it necessary to treat his manuscript as the
modern historian treats his sources.

.. vspace:: 2

When the *Isaac and Jacob* was moored alongside
the jetty, the tarpaulins that covered the deck were
thrown aside, the men whom they had concealed
sprang to their feet, and, joined by others who
swarmed up the companion way, rushed ashore
behind their leader, Jean Delarousse of Roscoff.
There were but two or three of the Polkerran folk
visible.  A large number of the fishers were five or
six miles away, having affairs of their own to attend
to.  The majority of the population were still abed.
A dozen miners, due for the day shift in an hour's
time, were breakfasting.  Only the smoke rising into
the air from the chimneys of their cottages gave sign
of life.

The few men who were out and about fled incontinently
to their homes at sight of the fifty determined
Frenchmen, armed with muskets, cutlasses,
and pistols, advancing across the few yards of open
space that separated the jetty from the nearest houses.
It was evident that the invaders had prearranged
their operations.  Twelve of their number separated
from the main body and went off hastily in couples,
three to the right, three to the left, until they reached
the last dwelling in either direction.  Then doubling
up the hills to right and left, they posted themselves
around the village in a half circle, at intervals of
about a hundred yards.  Their object manifestly was
to prevent any villager from breaking through, and
carrying news of the raid into the country beyond.
The Dower House and the Towers were naturally
not included in the cordon.

While this movement was being carried out,
Delarousse led the rest of his force straight to
the Five Pilchards.  The door was already open;
the miners usually paid an early visit to the inn
before they started for their work.  Delarousse on
entering was confronted by an elderly woman of
shrewish aspect, who stood like a dragon behind the
shining taps.

"Ze Towers, vere Trevanion live—it is zat big
house on ze cliff?" he asked.

Mrs. Doubledick nodded.  Fright bereft her of
speech.

"Vere is Doubledick?" asked the Frenchman.

The answer was a shake of the head; whereupon
Delarousse, ejaculating "Ah, bah!" returned to
his followers, who were collected about the entrance,
and led all but six of them up the hill.  Like a
prudent general, he took care to secure his
communications.

Though he presumed that Mrs. Doubledick's
shake of the head signified ignorance of her husband's
whereabouts, in this he was in error.  Doubledick
had returned home late at night, unaware of the
impending crisis in his affairs.  His wife gave him
Mr. Polwhele's message, and he anticipated a very
pleasant interview with the riding-officer on his
return from circumventing the smugglers.  Rising
early, he happened to see from his bedroom window
the crowd of Frenchmen swarming from the lugger,
and without waiting to finish dressing, he ran down
to the taproom, pulled up a trap-door behind the
bar, and descended into the capacious cellar beneath,
having strictly charged his wife not to reveal his
whereabouts.  He was shaking with fear, rather of
possible consequences which his imagination foresaw
than of immediate bodily harm.  Delarousse could
scarcely fail to discover before long that Doubledick
had given him misleading information, and he was
a man whose wrath it was not wise to face.

Between thirty and forty Frenchmen, strong,
hardy fellows, marched rapidly up the hill behind
their leader, whose agility was remarkable in one so
corpulent.  They had just risen upon the crest
when the clang of a bell struck upon their ears.

"En avant, mes gars!" cried Delarousse.  "Courez,
à toutes jambes!"

And being on fairly level ground, they broke into
a double.

.. vspace:: 2

The Squire, being now convinced that the Towers,
as the most conspicuous dwelling-house in the
neighbourhood, was the object of the Frenchmen's
raid, displayed none of that indecision and vacillation
which so often beset him in the matters of every-day
life.  He was now keen, alert, and ready, as became
a man who had served in the King's navy.  He
smiled grimly as he saw the Frenchmen hasting
towards him, as yet half a mile away.  "A pack of
fools!" he thought; "but 'tis hard that I should
be molested when on the brink of ruin."

In a few sharp, decisive words he bade Dick and
Reuben close and bolt the doors and shutters, and
haul against the former such heavy articles of
furniture as they could move in the few minutes
at their disposal.  Meanwhile he himself collected
several old muskets that were at hand, with powder
and slugs, in some cases relics of ancient trophies of
arms treasured by the family.  If he could hold the
enemy at bay even for a short time, their project
would be ruined, for the alarm bell and the sound of
shots would arouse the whole countryside, and unless
the invaders were supported by other vessels, they
must soon retire to the lugger.  At the first glance
he had seen that they were not French regular
soldiers, and concluded that their landing was not
the foretaste of a general invasion, but merely a
chance filibustering raid.

In the turret Sam was pulling the bell-rope with
short, quick jerks.  His brain was in a whirl.  The
advance of the Frenchmen was hidden from him,
but looking out of the narrow window in the
opposite direction, he spied, less than a minute
after the first clang, Joe Penwarden hurrying along
towards the Towers as fast as his old legs would
carry him.  Running to the opposite side of the
chamber, where a door admitted to the house, he
yelled down the stairs:

"Maister, here be old Joe a-comin'.  Let un in
by the back door."

"Run, Dick," said the Squire, "you're quickest.
An addition to the garrison is welcome."

Dick flew to the back door, whither Sam had
summoned Penwarden through the turret window.
During these few seconds the strokes of the bell
were very irregular, but they did not cease.

"What is it, Maister Dick?" said the old man,
as Dick closed and barricaded the door behind him.

"A gang of Frenchmen are running to attack
us.  They landed from Tonkin's lugger about ten
minutes ago.  Go to Father, Joe; he's in the front
room over the porch.  I'm going to the roof to see
what they are doing."

He leapt up the stairs three at a time, and
emerged on the leads of the tower, whence, sheltered
by the parapet, he could observe the enemy in safety.
They were now within two or three hundred yards
of the house.  Dick was surprised that there was no
sign of pursuers from the village.  Now that the
feeling between his family and the people was less
acute, he had expected that the bell would already
have summoned a concourse of fishers, miners, and
men of all occupations.  He was surprised, too,
that the alarm was not echoed by the new bell
which had recently been rigged up in the Dower
House.  Surely at such a moment personal feuds
might well be forgotten, and private enemies unite
to beat off a public foe.  But between the Towers
and the hill not a man was to be seen except the
advancing Frenchmen.  At the Dower House there
was no sign of life or movement, a strange
circumstance that set him wondering.  Why was not John
Trevanion alarmed at a French raid?  Was it
possible that he knew of it beforehand, approved it,
had even arranged it?  Having failed in some of
his schemes hitherto, had he now joined hands with
alien filibusters to deal his cousin a crowning stroke?

As his eyes ranged round, Dick suddenly caught
sight of a large vessel looming in the mist in a
straight line with the head of the Beal.  Its shape
was very indistinct and blurred, but there was a
certain familiarity in its aspect, and a sudden
conviction flashed upon Dick that it was the same
vessel as he had seen twice before in unusual and
mysterious circumstances.  Surely it must be the
notorious privateer, the *Aimable Vertu*, owned by
Jean Delarousse.  Why it should have come to an
insignificant place like Polkerran, when it might
have gained rich prizes on the high seas, was a
question that puzzled him greatly, unless Trevanion
had made an alliance with the Frenchman.

The Squire's dispositions to meet the threatening
attack were as good as could be devised, having
regard to the short breathing-space allowed him, and
to the nature of his situation.  A large rambling
building like the Towers could not be held for any
length of time by a slender garrison of five.  There
were half-a-dozen points at which it could be assaulted
simultaneously—the front door facing the village,
the back door facing the sea, the stable-yard, the
offices, the rooms and passages in the ruined portion.
But the principal tower, flanking the porch, was in
passable repair, and it was there that the Squire had
determined to make a final stand.  It contained two
or three rooms approached by a stone staircase
springing from near the front door.  Mrs. Trevanion
was sent by her husband to the topmost room.  He
posted himself, with Reuben and Penwarden, in the
room over the porch, where the window-shutters
had been loopholed, no doubt by some former owner
of the Towers, though the Squire had never given
the matter a thought.  Dick he sent to the back of
the house, instructing him to call Sam to his help if
he saw fit.

"Neither for fire nor battle does the bell summon
aid," he said bitterly.  "Sam may as well save his
energies."

His final instruction was that if the Frenchmen
broke in, as seemed only too probable, they should
all retreat to the tower, the entrance to which from
the staircase was protected by a heavy, iron-studded
oaken door.  Believing that the invaders' object was
loot and not slaughter, he scarcely anticipated
personal damage, but supposed that the garrison would
be allowed to remain in the tower unmolested while
the rest of the house was sacked.

Delarousse, panting a little from his exertions, was
as much alive to the risks and perils of his
enterprise as the Squire could be.  Success or failure
hung upon minutes.  But he had not earned his
reputation as a daring and resourceful privateer
undeservedly.  His object was a very simple one.
It was not bloodshed or rapine, but merely the
seizure of the man who had grievously wronged
him—John Trevanion, or, as he had known him in
Roscoff, Robinson.  Doubledick, to feed his private
malice, had declared that John Trevanion lived in
the Towers—the largest house upon the cliff.  The
Frenchman's little knowledge of the country had
been gained solely by observation from the sea, and
by the faint glimpses he had obtained on that dark
and rainy night when he evaded the pursuit of the
dragoons.  He remembered that the house at whose
door he had seen his enemy was nearer the top of
the hill than the Towers; but he had no reason to
doubt Doubledick's statement that the latter was
now the residence of John Trevanion, and no one
had told him that there were other Trevanions who
had no dealings with John.  It was therefore his
whole-hearted belief that the Towers sheltered his
bitterest foe which inspired his attack upon a man
who had never injured him.

Utterly possessed by his purpose, he wasted no
time in a vain summons to surrender.  The bell
was still clanging overhead.  He had taken
precautions to prevent interference from the village,
where the absence of so many men on the scene of
the expected run favoured his design.  But he was
not to know but that the summons might draw
armed men from every corner of the neighbourhood
beyond the village, and his blow must be struck at
once.  Accordingly he made straight for the porch,
and finding, as he had expected, that the door was
fast closed, he put his pistol to the lock, and with
one shot shattered it to splinters.  But the door was
held also by bolts and crossbars resting in staples,
and further secured by a sideboard placed against it
by Dick and Reuben, so that the breaking of the
lock availed him nothing.  Brought thus to a check,
he stood for a few moments within the porch among
his men to consider his next step.

Meanwhile the Squire at the last moment had
hurried to the top of the tower, with a double object:
to observe the movements of the enemy more
clearly than was possible through the loophole of a
shuttered window, and to scan the surrounding
country for any sign of assistance.  No one was at
present in sight.  The air was heavy; the wind
was off shore; and in all probability the sound
of the bell had not even reached Nancarrow's farm,
the nearest house except the Parsonage, much less
Sir Bevil Portharvan's place, two miles farther away.

He had given instructions before leaving Penwarden
that the French were not to be fired on until
they opened hostilities.  With his wife in the
building, he was determined not to draw upon himself by
any premature act the reprisals of so formidable a
gang of desperadoes.  Now that the Frenchmen
were within the porch, they were immune from
musket fire, and he began to wonder whether his
prohibition was not a mistake.  As soon, however,
as he heard the report of Delarousse's pistol, with a
rapidity that might have surprised those who had
only known him of late years, the Squire seized a
large block of loose stone that formed part of the
half-ruined parapet, and toppled it over on to the
roof of the porch below.  It fell upon the tiles with
a tremendous crash, scattering fragments in all
directions, and bounded off on to the gravel path.
Though none of the Frenchmen was struck by the
stone itself, or even by the splinters of the tiles, it
was sufficiently alarming to drive them from the
porch, and they scurried instantly into the open.
Two muskets flashed upon them from the loopholes
above; one man was hit by a slug, and hopped
away on one leg, assisted by his comrades.  At the
same moment the bell ceased to clang.  Hearing the
shots, Sam rushed down the stairs to take his part in
the fray.  The whole body of Frenchmen had now
withdrawn out of range, and the Squire saw the little
stout man, their leader, carefully scanning the
building, with the object, no doubt, of finding a weak
spot to attack.  Only two minutes had elapsed since
the enemy made the first move.

Alarmed at the sudden silence of the bell, from
which he concluded that its clanging had achieved
its object, Delarousse despatched one of his men
to the high ground northward to report the approach
of any armed force.  Meanwhile he himself made a
rapid circuit of the Towers, keeping, if not out of
range, at least beyond easy-hitting distance.  The
back entrance seemed to him a vulnerable point, and
the more promising, because it was not commanded
by the tower, but only by the small window at
which Dick was stationed.  His ill-success at the
front door made him resolute to go the shortest way
to work at the back.  He sent half-a-dozen men
across the open stable-yard into the half-ruined
stable to haul down one of the stout balks of wood that
supported the roof, for use as a battering-ram.  This
movement was concealed from Dick by the angle of
the building.

While his men were gone about this errand, Delarousse,
impatient of the loss of time, took it into his
head to summon the garrison to surrender.  He trotted
back to the front of the building, set his legs apart, and,
lifting his eyes to the top of the tower, shouted a
loud "Hola!"  The Squire showed his head above
the parapet, but did not reply.

"Hola!" repeated the Frenchman.  "Trevanion!
Render Trevanion; zen I go."

"A trick!" thought the Squire.  "He thinks
I'm worth a ransom!"

"Trevanion!" cried Delarousse again.  "Ze
ozers I not touch."

"I'll see what they say," shouted the Squire.
"Anything to gain time," he thought.

Going to the door opening on the staircase he
called for Dick.

"This fellow wants me, Dick," he said.  "Goodness
knows why!  I suppose he imagines some rich
imbecile will buy me back.  If I surrender myself,
he promises to spare the rest.  Just run and see
what your mother says: my old bones don't take
kindly to those stairs."

Before Dick returned Delarousse lost patience and
shouted for an answer.  The Squire kept out of
sight.

"Mother says you must not think of it for a
moment," said Dick, running up again.  "I knew
she would."

"To tell the truth, so did I," replied his father.
"But we have gained two or three minutes.  Now
to decline as civilly as possible—though he might at
least Mounseer me, I think."

As soon as his head reappeared above the parapet,
Delarousse shouted:

"Eh bien!  You render Jean Trevanion?"

Father and son looked at each other.  Dick's face
expressed surprise mingled with relief; a strange
smile sat upon the Squire's countenance.

"We give up nobody," he called down firmly.
"Do your worst."

Dick thrilled with filial pride.  It was a lesson in
chivalry that he never forgot.  A word from his
father, he could not doubt, would have sent the
Frenchmen in hot haste to the Dower House; but
that word the Squire could not speak, even though
John Trevanion was his worst enemy.

Delarousse spat out an oath, shook his fist at the
impassive gentleman above him, and toddled off to
the back, disappearing behind the outhouses.

"We'll see what the rascal is after now," said the
Squire quickly, and followed Dick down the stairs.

For a minute or two the further proceedings of
the assailants were hidden from view.  Then the
watchers saw, coming round the corner from the
stables, four men bearing a stout twelve-foot post.
Delarousse, immediately behind, urged them on with
voluble utterance and vigorous play of hands.

"A battering-ram!" said the Squire.  "I think,
Dick, 'tis time to give them a warning."

Dick lifted his musket and fired through a
loophole upon the men rushing forward.  There was a cry
from below; the effect of the shot could not be seen
through the smoke; it was answered by a score of
bullets pattering on the shutters.  The Squire placed
his musket to a second loophole.  It was impossible
to take aim; he fired at random; and another sharp
cry seemed to tell that his slug had gone home.  A
babel of shouts arose.  Peeping through the loopholes
they saw that one of the four men bearing the
post lay on the ground; he had let fall his end
of the battering-ram.  At the same moment there
came the distant crackle of a fusillade.  The sound
goaded Delarousse to fury.  He rushed forward to
lift the dropped end of the post.  But just as he was
stooping, there was a loud shout from his left.  He
turned his head, without rising from the ground, and
what he saw, in common with the spectators above,
was three men half pushing, half dragging a fourth
towards the leader of the party.  Delarousse remained
in his stooping posture, as though transfixed with
amazement, while a man might count four.  Then,
springing to his feet, he rushed headlong towards
the approaching group, drawing a pistol as he ran.

.. _`"DELAROUSSE RUSHED HEADLONG TOWARDS THE APPROACHING GROUP"`:

.. figure:: images/img-335.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "DELAROUSSE RUSHED HEADLONG TOWARDS THE APPROACHING GROUP."

   "DELAROUSSE RUSHED HEADLONG TOWARDS THE APPROACHING GROUP."

Up to that moment the fourth man had been
passive in the hands of the three; but as soon as
he caught sight of Delarousse leaping towards
him, he jerked himself violently from the grasp of
his captors, felled first one, then a second, with
sledgehammer blows from right and left, and, slipping
from the hands of the third, dashed with
extraordinary speed along by the stable wall in the
direction of the village.  In ten seconds he was out
of sight, and the whole band of Frenchmen, yelling
fiercely, some discharging their pistols, turned their
backs upon the Towers and doubled after the
fugitive.

Dick darted from the room, and up the stairs to
the roof, Sam hard upon his heels, the Squire
following at a pace that belied his melancholy
allusion to his old bones.  Penwarden also, hearing
Sam's jubilant shout at the raising of the siege, left
his post at the front, and clambered up after the
others, muttering "Dear life! what a mix-up the
world is!"  Leaning over the parapet, the four
watched the strangest chase that ever was seen.  The
fugitive came to the wicket-gate leading out of the
grounds, and took it with a flying leap, with the
crowd of Frenchmen in full cry behind him.  Some,
like Delarousse himself, bore a burden of flesh and
forty years; others were younger and slimmer, and
these, impelled by the furious cries of their leader,
leapt the gate in turn, the last of them catching his
foot in the top and coming sprawling to the ground.

Their quarry, crossing a strip of land that still
belonged to the Squire, came to the fence recently
erected around the grounds of the Dower House.
It was six feet high, a formidable obstacle to a man
of his bulk and years.  He clutched the top of it,
heaved himself up, rolled across it sideways, and
disappeared on the other side, wrenching the tail of
his coat from the hands of the foremost Frenchman.
In a trice the pursuer scrambled up after him, threw
himself over, and also disappeared.  Of the other
members of his party, some scaled the obstacle with
more or less facility; others, baulked by it, ran to
right and left to find a path.  Delarousse, whose
stature and build forbade any athletic feat, yet
disdained to leave the direct course, and called to
two of his men to hoist him up.  For an instant he
sat swaying on the top of the fence; then he too
dropped like a falling sack.  Of all the thirty odd
Frenchmen there were now only two or three to be seen.

But in a minute or two the hunt again came fully
into view from the lofty tower.  The fugitive sped
along with amazing swiftness, making a straight line
for the Dower House.  Behind him, strung at
intervals over two fields, poured the impetuous
Frenchmen.  One or two were close at his heels;
the rest followed, each according to his ability.

"They've catched un!" cried Sam, his eyes dilated
with excitement.  "No, be-jowned if they have.
Got away!  Yoick!  Yo-hoy!  Now then, Frenchy!
Ah, I thought ye'd do it, now you've smashed yerself.
No, he's up again!  Halloo!"

The side door of the Dower House stood half-open.
The fugitive drew nearer and nearer to it;
the pursuers seemed to make still more violent
exertions to overtake him before he reached it.  A few
yards more!  Ah! he was inside: the door was
closing.  But before it was quite shut, the first
pursuer flung himself forward and thrust his musket
within.  To close the door was now impossible.
For a few seconds the Frenchman appeared to be
engaged in a fierce trial of strength with the persons
inside.  Two or three of his companions joined him;
they threw themselves together upon the door; it
yielded; and they dashed into the house.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`John Trevanion in the Toils`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND


.. class:: center medium

   John Trevanion in the Toils

.. vspace:: 2

With the aid of imagination's magic boots we
skip now from the Towers to the village, and see
what was happening there.

The *Isaac and Jacob* lay alongside the jetty, in
charge of half-a-dozen Frenchmen who lolled lazily
about the deck.  Nathan Pendry, who had steered
the vessel into harbour, reclined, the picture of
scowling discontent, against the bulwarks.  Below,
in the dark, reeking hold, trussed like fowls, lay Isaac
Tonkin, Simon Mail, and two more of the most
respected smugglers of Polkerran.

It appeared from Tonkin's story, told many a
time in after years to the breathless company in
the parlour of the Three Jolly Mariners, that
on arriving in Roscoff to purchase his Christmas
cargo, he had been sought out by Jean Delarousse,
whose customer he had formerly been.  The
Frenchman did not complain of Tonkin's desertion,
nor did he seek a renewal of their trade relations;
his sole object was to persuade the Cornishman, by
means of a heavy bribe, to deliver John Trevanion
into his hands.  Tonkin had his grievance against
Trevanion.  He felt sore at having had to play
second fiddle to the younger man in recent smuggling
transactions.  But being an honest fellow, and loyal
in grain, he rejected Delarousse's offer with indignant
scorn, and refused to believe what he understood of
the tale poured into his ears in broken English, of a
long course of deceit and fraud by which, as
Delarousse alleged, Trevanion had enriched himself at
his partner's expense.  The Frenchman had appeared
to take his refusal in good part, and Tonkin, having
freighted his lugger, put to sea on his return voyage,
intending to run his cargo at the creek in the small
hours of Friday morning as arranged.

The *Aimable Vertu*, Delarousse's privateering craft,
lay in Roscoff harbour.  Tonkin was only a mile or
two at sea, when he noticed that the privateer was
coming up astern.  This circumstance at first gave
him no concern; Delarousse was doubtless setting
forth on one of his forays.  But soon he began to
suspect, from the course held by the larger vessel,
that he was being chased, or at least dogged.  The
*Isaac and Jacob* was a very swift vessel, and, laden
though she was, her master hoped to be able to
maintain his lead until nightfall, and then to escape
under cover of the darkness.  But he was not long
in discovering that his lugger was no match in speed
for the privateer.  The short dusk of the December
evening was closing down upon the sea when the
*Aimable Vertu* came within range.  The lugger's
armament consisted of one small carronade; the
Frenchman had a broadside, which at a single
discharge would have shattered the lesser craft to
splinters.  When, therefore, Tonkin was hailed and
bidden to heave-to, he chose the sensible, indeed the
only practicable, course, and obeyed.  Delarousse
and a boarding party took possession of the lugger;
in spite of vigorous protests, Tonkin and his crew
were bound and laid by the board, and, room having
been made for them in the hold by the removal of
several tubs, they were carried below.  The two
vessels then in company continued on their course
for the English coast.

Favoured by the light mist that hung over the
Channel during the night, the privateer escaped
discovery by any English cruisers or revenue-cutters
that might have been in the neighbourhood.  When,
however, she approached the rugged Cornish coast,
the mist became a danger, and Delarousse had
Tonkin fetched from below, and ordered him to
pilot the vessels into Polkerran harbour.  This the
humiliated mariner flatly refused to do, persisting in
his refusal in spite of the entreaties, curses, and
menaces of his captor.  He was carried back by
ungentle hands to his noisome lair, and Pendry, a
man of less backbone, proved to be more amenable
to the Frenchman's commands.  Under his skilful
pilotage, the lugger safely made the harbour, the
privateer standing some distance out at sea, to watch
events.

Now Tonkin, as has already been said, was a man
of enormous strength, and as the pages of this
history have shown, of great courage and resolution
also.  Nor was he lacking in prudence or common-sense;
witness his ready surrender of the lugger
when refusal would have meant his being blown out
of the water.  The same common-sense restrained
him from struggling against impossible odds, both
when he was trussed up, and afterwards when the
vessel was manned by fifty or sixty well-armed
Frenchmen.  But so soon as he felt the lugger
lightly graze the jetty, and knew by the rush of
hurrying feet on deck that the great majority of his
captors had gone ashore, he began to strain at his
bonds.  The Frenchmen had done their work of
trussing capably enough, and, in the case of
ninety-nine men out of a hundred, no doubt there would
have been no danger of its being undone.  But
Tonkin's muscles were hard as iron; he had the
strength of a horse.  After a few minutes' straining,
the rope about his wrists gave way; to release his
legs was then easy.  Delarousse having gone through
his pockets before trussing him, he was without a
knife, and had to loosen with his hands the ropes
wherewith his comrades were tied.  As soon as the
first man was liberated, he set to work on the bonds
of another, and within a few minutes after Tonkin
had released himself, all the men were free.

Until the lugger reached the harbour, a number
of the Frenchmen had clustered on the companion,
and at its foot.  When the time came for them to
dash ashore, they scrambled in hot haste through the
hatchway on to the deck, not thinking to batten down
the hatch.  As soon, therefore, as Tonkin was free,
he rapidly planned how to escape from the hold with
his men, when they had recovered the full use of
their partially numbed limbs.  He first felt about in
the darkness for articles that would serve as effective
weapons, and discovered a marlinspike, the hammer
he used for driving spigots into the tubs, and several
balks of timber that were employed for preventing
the tubs from rolling.  Each man armed himself.
Long experience of smuggling had taught them to
move quickly without noise, and, led by Tonkin,
whose agility seemed in no wise lessened by his bulk,
they swarmed swiftly through the hatchway.

The men left in charge of the vessel were leaning
over the bulwarks, smoking, and envying their
comrades at the inn, who, finding that the villagers
showed no disposition to interfere with them, had
seized the opportunity to refresh themselves at
the expense of the innkeeper.  Before the idle
spectators on the deck could turn and form up
to meet the rush, Tonkin and his men were upon
them.  A few swift, sharp strokes of the fishers'
nondescript weapons, and the Frenchmen were lying
senseless on the deck.

Without the loss of a moment the Cornishmen
leapt the bulwarks and scampered along the jetty.
They were half-way to the inn before the careless
sentinels in the parlour heard their footsteps and ran
out to see what was happening.  Forming in front
of the door, they brought their muskets to the
shoulder and delivered a scattered volley; but
surprise, haste, and strong liquor combined to spoil
their aim, and none of the fishers was hit except
Simon Mail, who dropped his spike with a yell
and sat down on the cobbles, *hors de combat*.  The
Frenchmen had no time either to reload or to retreat.
The fishers, burly men all, charged straight at them
and struck four to the ground, the other two taking
to their heels and starting to run up the hill towards
their leader.  But as if by magic the neighbourhood
of the inn was suddenly alive with figures.  The
fishermen and miners, who had remained hitherto
cowering in their cottages, rushed out the moment
they could do so safely.  The fugitives were
caught and held; a fierce crowd surrounded the
others; and in a few minutes all six, bruised and
battered, lay in a row against the inn wall.

Meanwhile Tonkin had dashed into the inn,
pulled up the trap-door leading to the cellar, and
descended into the depths.  Doubledick, whom the
sound of shots had caused to shake like a jelly,
heard the heavy clump of the fisher's boots, and
shrank behind a large tun in a corner of the cellar.
Unaware of his presence, Tonkin hastened to the
opposite corner, where, in a cunningly contrived
recess, lay a store of firearms and ammunition, kept
there for use against the King's officers when
required.  It was now to be turned to a more
legitimate purpose.  Tonkin seized as many muskets
as he could carry, and hurried with them up the
ladder, sending down for more those of his men
who were not occupied with the Frenchmen.  By
the time these latter were secured, arms had been
served out to the fishers who had escaped from the
lugger, and to the most likely of the others.  Then
a compact body of thirty well-armed men followed
Tonkin up the hill.

.. vspace:: 2

In order to trace clearly the course of events in
that crowded hour of Polkerran's history, it becomes
necessary to glance at what had happened at the
Dower House.

John Trevanion had become so accustomed to the
smuggling operations, and it was so much a part of
his policy to keep himself in the background in
these matters, that it did not occur to him to rise
early in order to learn what luck had attended the
run which he had expected to take place at the creek,
during the night or in the small hours of that
morning.  Having a perfectly easy conscience, and
the comfortable expectation that he would be richer
by two hundred pounds when he awoke, he slept as
placidly as a child, and did not become aware that
anything unusual was occurring until a repeated
rapping at the door by Susan Berry, startled out
of her wits, at length penetrated his slumbering
intelligence.

"All right," he called drowsily.  "What's the time?"

"I don't know, sir," cried poor Susan through
the door.  "Please, sir, there be a passel o' men
firing shots at the Towers."

"Nonsense!" said Trevanion.

"'Tis gospel truth, sir.  There be hundreds o'
men shoutin' and hollerin', and Cook be fainted dead
away in kitchen."

"Fling cold water on her, Susan.  There's
nothing to be afraid of.  They're shooting rabbits,
I've no doubt."

Trevanion's thought was that the smugglers had
been checkmated at the creek, and then, in their
fury, had attacked the Towers, believing that their
discomfiture was due to an alliance between the
Squire and the revenue officers.  His chagrin at the
loss of his expected profits was not so profound as
his delight in the thought that the enmity he had so
carefully fostered was bearing such rich fruit.  Far
be it from him to interfere.  But being now effectually
awakened, he bade Susan to return to the kitchen,
dressed quickly, and went to an upper window
whence he could see something of what was going
on.  The Towers was, however, too far away, and
the air too misty, for him to observe the operations
so closely as he would have liked, and, curiosity
and malicious pleasure overcoming his prudence, he
determined to set forth and watch from a more
convenient standpoint the mischief which he hoped
was afoot.  But wishing not to attract attention, he
forbade his household to leave the premises, issued
by the back door, and slunk round the inside of one
of his high fences.

He had advanced about half-way to the Towers
when he was startled to hear shots behind him, from
the direction of the village.  The sound brought
him to a sudden halt, and a sickening misgiving
seized him.  Had the firing begun in the village,
there is little doubt that he would have at once
suspected the attack of which he had long been
secretly in dread.  But the fact that the Towers was
being assaulted, so soon after the run was to have
taken place, had thrown him off his guard.  Now,
in a flash, he remembered what Doubledick had said
about his interview with Delarousse, and the
misleading information given to the Frenchman.  At
the time, and since, he had been somewhat sceptical
of the innkeeper's veracity, but he began to think
that his statement had, after all, been true.  At any
rate, it was the Towers that was in danger; the
Dower House was at present safe; and after a brief
pause of hesitation, he turned about and hurried back
in the direction of his own house.

But he had scarcely taken half-a-dozen steps when,
from behind a bush close by, there rose a red-capped
figure, and Trevanion looked straight at the muzzle
of a firelock.  He stopped, and before he could
collect his wits, two other figures joined the first.
"C'est lui!" cried one of the Frenchmen.  They
were three of the sentries whom Delarousse had
placed around the village, and were hastening to
rejoin their leader in advance of the band now
dashing up the hill.  Trevanion was so much taken
aback as to be incapable of resistance.  All that he
did when the men roughly seized him was to protest
that a mistake had been made.  "Ah! ah!" said
one of his captors.  "On ne s'en trompe pas; pas
de tout."  The other two each took one of
Trevanion's arms, and marched him at a great pace
through a gate in the fence towards the Towers, the
third man bringing up the rear.  What happened
when Trevanion and Delarousse came face to face
has already been related.

Maidy Susan, when Trevanion had left the
house, showed herself strangely callous to the sad
plight of Cook.  Convinced that the Corsican Ogre
had at last effected his long-threatened landing, she
wondered in her simple soul why her master had not
ordered the alarm bell to be rung, and the men
servants to seize their arms and sally forth to defend
their country.  She peeped in at the kitchen, saw
that Cook had recovered sufficiently to fan herself
and scream, and then ran upstairs to watch what
was going on.  Only a minute or two afterwards,
Trevanion broke from his captors and fled, the
yelling Frenchmen in full cry behind.

"'Tis he!  'Tis Boney!" cried Susan.

She clutched at the casement frame for support,
then suddenly flew downstairs like a young deer.  It
was she who held the door open, she who was
forced back by the onrush of the infuriated Frenchmen.
She crouched behind the door until the last
of them, Delarousse himself, passed, then sped to
the top of the house and began frantically to pull
the bell-rope.  Meanwhile the men whom Trevanion
had been at such pains to drill had fled towards the
village, and fallen into the hands of Delarousse's
sentries.

Trevanion darted along the passage and up the
stairs like a fox seeking cover from the hounds.  He
flung himself into his room, slammed and bolted the
door, caught up a pistol, and stood, panting from
haste and terror, in the middle of the floor.  He
heard the loud and rapid tramp of his pursuers
drawing near.

"Keep out, or I'll shoot you!" he cried.

The Frenchmen laughed him to scorn.  He was
one; they were many.  They set their shoulders to
the door; the timbers cracked, gave way; a bullet
whizzed harmlessly over their heads; and bursting
into the room, they seized their victim and dragged
him out and down the stairs again.  Delarousse met
them at the foot.  Gasping for breath, he ordered
some of his men to bind Trevanion's arms behind
his back and take him down to the lugger, others to
set fire to the house.

"Ah! scélérat!" he bellowed.  "Tu es à moi!"

Scarcely had the words left his lips when one of
his band, who had been wounded by a shot from the
Towers, hurried in with the news that a party of
men were in pursuit of them.  Confiding Trevanion
to the charge of four of his most trusty followers,
Delarousse collected the rest, and led them to the
front of the house, which the newcomers were said to
be approaching.  At the end of the drive, where
it branched from the road, was Tonkin with his
company of fishermen and miners.

Tonkin had led his men up the hill with more
haste than discretion.  When they reached the top
they were blown, and for some minutes had to
moderate their pace.  They could not see from the
road what was happening behind the fences, and had
come midway between the Dower House and the
Towers, at the same time as Trevanion arrived
abreast of them in the opposite direction.  But the
spectators on the tower had seen them.  The moment
Trevanion entered his door, the Squire, with Dick,
Sam, and Penwarden, hurried down the stairs.

"Hang it, Dick, they're Frenchmen!" cried the
Squire, his fighting blood roused.  "We must clear
the rascals out."

On reaching the ground he dispatched Sam to tell
Tonkin that the Frenchmen were now going in the
other direction, and hurried on with the others,
intending to join the fishers at the Dower House.
He arrived in time to see Tonkin's men fire a volley
at the Frenchmen at the windows.  Little damage
was done; Delarousse did not return the fire.  He
had achieved the object of his raid, and had no
desire to enter into useless hostilities.  Having taken
stock of the enemy, he withdrew his men into the
house, which was already filling with pungent smoke.

Tonkin halted his men for a moment in order to
recover breath.  It looked as if he would have to
take the house by storm, a difficult task in the face
of odds.  But he was a man of bulldog courage,
if no tactician.  Smarting with the indignity he
had suffered, and without stopping to think that
Delarousse might have no designs except against
Trevanion, he ordered his men to reload, and
prepared to lead them to the attack.

Delarousse, however, had taken advantage of the
momentary lull to withdraw his men through a long
window in the wall of the house facing the village.
The result was that when Tonkin, after so much
delay as was necessary for his men to regain their
breath and prime their muskets, led them at the
charge up to the house and broke through the door,
he found the house deserted, and the enemy in full
retreat down the hill.  He rushed after them, eager
to overtake them before they reached the village.
Some of his men had noticed that the house was on
fire, but in their excitement none stayed to extinguish
the flames, nor even to warn or assist the person
who was still ringing the bell.

By this time the Squire, with Dick and Penwarden,
skirting the grounds of the house, had joined
Tonkin's party, and was hurrying with them down
the hill.  The Frenchmen had more than a hundred
yards start, and on the descent proved to be as fleet
of foot as their pursuers.  On reaching the first of
the houses, Delarousse was met by the rest of his
cordon, who, now that the matter had come to a
fight, saw that they could employ themselves more
usefully than in keeping guard.  Now the Frenchmen
turned at bay, and checked the pursuit with a
scattered volley.

"Empty your muskets, then charge the ruffians!"
shouted the Squire, taking command as of right.

The Cornishmen responded with a cheer.  A
shower of slugs flew through the air, but the
Frenchmen having scattered, and many of them being
protected by the angles of houses on the winding
road, only one or two were hit.  There was no time
for either party to reload.  The pursuers dashed
forward, wielding cutlasses, and their muskets as
clubs.  The pursued stood to meet the charge;
there were a few moments of hand-to-hand conflict;
Tonkin's burly figure was conspicuous in the thickest
of the fray, wielding his musket like a flail; but
the numbers of the Frenchmen prevailed, and the
Squire recalled the men, to re-form them and charge
again.  From this point there was a straggling
fight down the hill to the neighbourhood of the inn.
The Squire, with Dick, Penwarden, and Tonkin
close about him, led a series of rushes against
the retreating enemy, whose numbers were always
sufficient to give them check.

On coming to the inn, which was within a short
distance of the jetty, Delarousse saw with alarm that
his escape had been cut off.  This was not due to
any prevision on Tonkin's part.  He had been too
eager to follow up the Frenchmen to consider
ultimate contingencies.  But his defect as a tactician
was supplied by a man whom no one had hitherto
suspected of any capacity in that direction, and who
enjoyed henceforth, to the day of his death, a very
exalted reputation in Polkerran on the strength of
this one achievement.

Pennycomequick, the cobbler, perceiving that the
Frenchmen on the lugger were apparently stunned,
hastily got together a little party of men and boys,
boarded the vessel, clapped the Frenchmen under
hatches, and then punted out some distance from the
jetty, towing the boats that had lain drawn up on the
little beach.  No one as yet knew that the Frenchmen
had not sailed all the way from Roscoff in the lugger;
the *Aimable Vertu* in the offing was concealed by the
mist that still shrouded the sea.  Finding himself
thus cut off from communication with his vessel,
Delarousse, who had released the men trussed up
by Tonkin, with ready resource flung himself into
the inn, and ordered his company to reload and
occupy the windows.  The Squire, now as keen as
when he had been a young lieutenant, saw instantly
that, the superiority in force being with the
Frenchmen, the possession of the inn gave them an
additional advantage which would render an attack
hazardous to the last degree.  He called a halt, to
consider the next move.

At this moment the clatter of a horse's hoofs was
heard from round the corner leading to the hill, and
Mr. Carlyon rode down.

"What's all this, Trevanion?" he cried.

"A pack of rascally Frenchmen have raided the
place, Vicar," answered the Squire, "and are now
holding the inn."

"Bless my life!  What impudent scoundrels!"

He dismounted, nimbly for a man of his years.

"Give me a gun," he cried.  "Here, you—I
forget your name—get on my horse and ride to
Truro as fast as you can and bring all the able-bodied
men and any old soldiers you can find there.  You,
Benjamin Pound, go round to Doubledick's stables,
take a horse, ride to Portharvan, and ask Sir Bevil
from me to call out the yeomanry."

"Please, yer reverence, I can't ride a hoss," said
the young fisher addressed.

"Can't ride!  You must, or find someone who can.
Off with you, or you shan't come to my dinner
to-morrow.  Bless my soul!  Raiding on the day before
Christmas!  Can't we turn 'em out, Trevanion?"

"Impossible, Vicar, unless we're prepared to lose
half our men.  And then we'd fail.  One man
behind a wall is equal to four outside."

"What did Doubledick mean by letting the
villains into the inn?  How did they come here?
I don't see any vessel."

Tonkin was explaining the circumstances when,
down the stairs beside the inn wall, came Doubledick,
pale, dishevelled, and covered with dust.  Becoming
alarmed for his safety when the inn was invaded by
the Frenchmen, he had made his way out by a secret
passage leading up the slope into a house abutting
on the stairway.  He came up to the group silently
and unobserved, and listened to Tonkin's explanations
and the further account given by the Squire of the
attack on the Towers and the subsequent pursuit and
capture of John Trevanion.  Then he pressed
forward to the Vicar's side.

"Ah! yer reverence," he said with unction,
"'tis a judgment, 'tis indeed.  It do cut me to the
heart to say so, but Maister John be the wicked
cause of this affliction."

"What do you mean, Doubledick?" asked the
Vicar, with a sidelong glance at the Squire.

"Do 'ee mind, sir, that night a while ago when
the sojers wer ridin' about country arter a runaway
prisoner?  Well, I own 'a was for a little small time
in my inn; I'd never seed un afore, and didn' know
he wer a runaway till 'twas too late to gie un
up."  (Doubledick, it will be observed, was not
over-scrupulous as to his facts.)  "While he was here,
Maister John came down from Dower House and
seed un, and they hollered at each other in the
French lingo till my ears wer drummin'.  Ah! 'twas
then I first had my mispicions o' Maister John."

"Cut your story short, man," said Mr. Carlyon
impatiently.

"Well, then, yer reverence, when I went over to
France, the Frenchy telled me as how Maister John,
Robinson by name, wer his partner for ten year, and
robbed him right and left.  Ah! he was a clever
rogue, too, keepin' in the background so as our
Polkerran men shouldn' see un when they wented
over to—to sell fish.  And Delarousse swore to me,
'a did, that he'd take vengeance on him, and now he
be come to do it, sure enough.  If I may make so
bold, I'd say let the Frenchy take Maister John and
leave us in peace.  I don't want to see my inn
riddled wi' shots and crumbled about my ears."

"Iss, and so say I," cried Tonkin.  "Delarousse
telled me the self-same story, but I didn' believe
un; no, I couldn' believe as Maister John were
sech a 'nation rogue.  I must believe it, now
Doubledick hev telled us all.  Let un go, sir, and
be-jowned to un."

Fierce cries of approval broke from the crowd,
but the Squire held up his hand for silence.

"Let me have a word, neighbours," he said.
"We're Cornishmen, every man of us, and good
subjects of King George.  We can't allow a French
raiding party to arrest a man on English soil,
whatever his character may be.  'Tis flat treason; what
do you say, Vicar?"

"I agree with you.  As a magistrate, neighbours,
I say we must do our duty."

"I won't go agen Squire and pa'son," cried
Tonkin.  "I stand up for King Jarge."

"King Jarge for ever!" shouted the crowd.

"Well, then," said the Vicar, "we'll hold our
ground here until the yeomanry come up, and then
we'll storm the inn.  God save the King!"

At this moment Dick pushed his way through the
crowd.

"The privateer is under weigh, sir," he cried,
"and standing in for the harbour."

All eyes were turned towards the sea.  The
*Aimable Vertu*, which had been lying off the
headland, almost concealed by the mist, was steering for
the fairway, evidently with the intention of coming
to the assistance of the landing-party.

"Where's Mr. Mildmay?" cried the Squire.
"'Tis for him to capture that rascally privateer."

Doubledick looked conscious; Tonkin and his
fishers exchanged glances, and thought of the cargo
in the hold of the *Isaac and Jacob*.

"We can do it, sir," cried Dick suddenly.  "She
must pass beneath that big rock at the head of the
Beal.  It doesn't stand steady, and a good push
would hurl it over into the fairway.  Let the vessel
come in, and then block up the channel; she'd be
caught then."

"A capital notion," said the Vicar.  "Off with you,
Dick; take two or three men with you.  Have a
care not to throw yourself over too."

Dick hurried off with a few of the younger men.
When they arrived at the landward end of the Beal,
the privateer was slowly threading her course through
the fairway towards the jetty, a man in the chains
sounding busily.  She crept in, and had come within
a hundred yards of the jetty when Dick and his
companions reached the boulder.  They heard the
rattle of her anchor; she swung broadside to the
village, and the spectators on shore saw a formidable
row of guns grinning from her portholes.  Dick and
his companions set their shoulders to the rock.

The door of the inn meanwhile had opened,
and Delarousse appeared, holding aloft a musket,
to which a white cloth was attached as a flag of
truce.

"I vill speak viz you," he said, pointing to the
Squire, whom he recognised.

"Shall I parley with the rascal?" asked the Squire
of Mr. Carlyon.

"Yes.  We wish to avoid bloodshed, but it must
be unconditional surrender, Trevanion."

The Squire stepped towards the inn, meeting
Delarousse half-way.

"You speak French, monsieur?" said the latter
courteously.

"Not a word, sir," replied the Squire.

"Ah!  C'est dommage!  I speak English, bad,
monsieur.  I make a meestake: I demand pardon.
I not know ze house vas to you; pardon ze meestake,
monsieur."

"We'll say no more about that, sir," said the
Squire.  "I am willing to believe you had no wish
to attack me.  But this is an act of war, sir.  You
must at once set your prisoner free, and surrender,
every one of you."

"Ah, no, monsieur," returned the Frenchman with
a smile.  "I haf to say your demand is ridicule.  I
make vun sign: bah! ze shot from my vessel zey
strike ze village all to pieces.  Voyez!  Ze boats
come now for me.  You stop me?  No."

The Squire turned and looked in the direction of
Delarousse's outstretched hand.  Two boats had been
lowered from the deck of the privateer, and, filled
with men armed to the teeth, were now pulling for
the jetty.  It was clear that under the vessel's
broadside no attempt to check this fresh invasion could
be successful.

"You see?" continued the Frenchman, who had
watched the expression on the Squire's face.  "I not
quarrel viz ze people here; mon Dieu, no!  Zey are
my friends; viz zem I haf excellent affairs, zey
profit us both.  Ze man zat injure me, I haf him.
Vat avantage of resistance?  None.  Zen I depart:
all is finish vizout—vizout combat sanguinaire."

"Your proposal——" began the Squire, but at this
moment a dull splash was heard from the direction
of the Beal.  Dick and his assistants had displaced
the rock, which rolled over the edge, bounded
on to the ledge whence Dick had made his dive, and
then plunged almost into the middle of the fairway.
Even at that distance a few feet of it could be seen
projecting above the surface.

"Sacré nom d'un chien!" cried Delarousse,
startled out of his equanimity.  "Vat is zis?"

"Some of my men have blocked up the fairway
with a large rock," replied the Squire.  "It is
now impossible for your vessel to clear the harbour."

"But zis is perfidy, monsieur!" cried the furious
Frenchman.  "Ve speak as parlementaires; zere is
arrest of hostilities; ma foi! zis is ze perfidy of
English."

"Not at all, sir.  The men had already gone to
do their work; I could not stop them.  You see
your position, sir.  I advise you to consult with your
men and surrender at discretion."

They parted.  Delarousse, livid with anger,
returned to the inn; the Squire rejoined his party.

"We have the rascals," said Mr. Carlyon gleefully.

"I axe yer pardon, sir," said Tonkin, "but don't
'ee think we'd better let the Frenchies go in peace
arter all?  They guns 'ud knock the village to dust,
and there's the women and childer to think of."

"Ah! that's true," said the Vicar, and taking
Mr. Trevanion aside, he began to discuss the matter with
him.  While they were still earnestly talking, there
was a shout.  They broke apart, and turning, saw
that Delarousse had solved the problem in his own way.

The inn fronted the jetty, but on its southward
side a narrow lane ran between the blind walls of the
pilchard fishers' salting-houses.  The further end of
this was nearer by a few yards to the sea.  Rendered
desperate, the Frenchman saw in the conversation
between the two gentlemen an opportunity for
making a dash.  He ordered four of his men to
throw open a low window giving on the lane, and to
rush John Trevanion as quickly as possible down to
the jetty, while he maintained his position with the
rest at the front windows.  Then, as soon as he was
informed that the four men had arrived at the end of
the lane, he gave the word for all to follow.  Before
the besiegers were aware of this sudden movement,
the Frenchmen had gained a start of more than fifty
yards.

"After them, my men!" cried the Squire, when
he saw them rushing from behind the wall of the
salting-house towards the jetty.

The whole party poured in pursuit.  But by the
time they reached the shoreward end of the jetty,
John Trevanion had been lowered into the first of
the privateer's boats.  The second had towed back a
number of the craft which Pennycomequick had
removed from the shore, the lugger itself, however,
with the cobbler and his helpers aboard, still lying in
the harbour on the inner side of the reef.  Into these
boats Delarousse and his men leapt, and pulled off
swiftly to the privateer.  They had no sooner left
the jetty than a puff of smoke issued from one of
the vessel's portholes; there was a roar, and a round
shot crashed into the planking, smashing several
yards of it, and sending up splinters almost into the
eyes of the Squire.

"'Tis no good, Trevanion," cried the Vicar.
"We shall all be slaughtered if we line up and fire at
them.  They've got your cousin, and we can't
help it."

"But they can't get out of the fairway, and there's
no water on the reef," said the Squire.  "If only
Mildmay were here!"

He was soon to see that he had not reckoned
with the seamanship of Jean Delarousse.  The
first of the boats pulled at full speed towards the
fairway, receiving from the deck of the privateer
a sounding-line as she passed.  From the second
boat Delarousse climbed to the deck of his vessel.
The pilot crew, having sounded and measured the
width of the channel between the fairway and the
cliff, signed to their captain that he might proceed.
It seemed to Dick impossible that the vessel should
win through, and he watched with unstinted admiration
the Frenchman's skilful seamanship.  Delarousse
ordered the anchor to be tripped, and the vessel
moved slowly towards the fairway, close-hauled on
the starboard tack.  When she reached the rock, she
seemed to graze the cliff as she passed into the narrow
channel; but with Delarousse himself at the helm
she passed safely through.  Then, there being a fair
wind on her starboard quarter, Delarousse hauled up
his courses, mainsail and foresail, and threw his
foreyard aback.  The check on the ship's way gave him
time to take aboard the boat, which had been moored
to the rock, the rest of his crew having already
clambered up the side from the other boats.  These
were then cast adrift; the foreyard filled, and the
*Aimable Vertu* stood out to sea.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Price of Treachery`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD


.. class:: center medium

   The Price of Treachery

.. vspace:: 2

One stride of our magic boots takes us from
Polkerran to the creek, five miles away, where
another little drama was being enacted.

Doubledick's information to Mr. Polwhele was
that the *Isaac and Jacob* might be expected to arrive
at the creek from Roscoff about five o'clock in the
morning.  Some little time before that hour,
therefore, the riding-officer took up his position in a
hollow a hundred yards beyond the stream.  In
order that no suspicion might be engendered in the
village, he had not brought his usual assistants, but
was accompanied by a posse of excisemen from
Newquay, and a half-troop of dragoons from
Plymouth.  At the same time Mr. Mildmay's cutter
anchored in a sheltered cove northwards, having
sailed in precisely the opposite direction on the
previous night, in order to deceive the smugglers.

Mr. Polwhele had not long posted himself when
some thirty strapping fellows, fishers and farm-hands
for the most part, marched down the sloping ground
south of the creek, and congregated at a spot where
the bank was a foot or two above the water, a
convenient place for the debarkation of the lugger's
cargo.  The murmur of their voices could be heard
by the hidden preventive men across the stream, and
Mr. Polwhele chuckled at the thought of the fine
haul he was about to make.  The excisemen with
him were old hands, and knew how to keep silence,
and the dragoons, although they hated this revenue
work, were too well disciplined to hazard the failure
of the ambuscade.  Their horses had been left
tethered half a mile away.

The minutes passed; five o'clock came, and both
parties were on the alert for any sound from seaward.
The wind blew from the north-east, so that it was
not at all surprising that the lugger should be late.
But when six o'clock came they began to be restless.
It was tiring and comfortless, waiting in the misty
gloom of a raw December morning.  The sky was
pitch dark.  Neither party could see the other.
The murmurs of the tub-carriers became louder, and
the dragoons muttered and grumbled under their
breath.

The night was yielding, the outlines of the
country were becoming distinguishable, and yet the
lugger did not come.  Mr. Polwhele began to
wonder whether he had been fooled, and inwardly
promised Doubledick a bad quarter of an hour if this
long vigil in cold and darkness proved vain.  Jimmy
Nancarrow, in charge of the tub-carriers, had
misgivings of a chase and capture on the sea.  Now that
dawn was breaking, he went to the top of the cliff
and looked out into the mist, but never a sign of the
lugger did he see.  As he descended to rejoin his
men, something caught his eye among the bare trees
in a hollow on the opposite bank.  He crouched
behind a gorse bush, and watched for some minutes;
then, instead of continuing on his direct course
downward, he crept away at an angle, taking advantage
of every depression and furze-patch that afforded
cover, and so came to his company again.  He told
them what he had seen.  Consternation seized them;
they became suddenly silent, then whispered anxiously
among themselves.

There could be little doubt that they had been
spied by the preventives.  What was to be done?
On the one hand they could not depart, leaving
Tonkin unwarned, to fall into the hands of the
revenue officers.  On the other hand, they were in no
mood or condition to relish a brush with dragoons,
and it was certainly a dragoon's forage-cap that
Nancarrow had descried.  The best course seemed
to be to wait; perhaps the revenue officers would
grow weary first.

Another hour passed.  Then the tub-carriers saw
the nose of the revenue cutter appear round the
corner of the cliff.  The game was up.  No run
could be made: the lugger would not put in while
the cutter was in sight; and Nancarrow and his men
in sullen rage left their posts and set off to trudge
homeward.

In a moment Mr. Polwhele was hailed by the
lieutenant from the cutter.

"Ahoy there, Mr. Polwhele!" he shouted.

The riding-officer left his place of concealment,
and moved to the edge of the cliff, within speaking
distance of Mr. Mildmay.

"Tricked again!" he said, angrily.  "My word!
Doubledick shall suffer for this."

At that moment an unusual sound made them both
start.  It was like the distant thud of some object
falling on the ground.

"A gun!  Bless my life, Polwhele, what's
this?" cried the lieutenant.

"Goodness knows!  A ship in distress, maybe.
'Tis no use waiting here any longer, so I'll ride back
and see."

"I'll come round in the cutter as quickly as I
can.  She must have run on the rocks in the mist.
The wind wouldn't cast her ashore—I'll come round
in the cutter."

Mr. Polwhele hastened back to his men.  They,
too, had heard the shot.

"Come, my men, that's a big gun," said the
riding-officer.  "Smugglers be hanged!  Maybe
there's rescue work to do.  Soldiers, get your horses;
we'll dash to the village and do our duty.  You
others, march after us; there may be work for you, yet."

The men were thankful for the opportunity of
movement, and the prospect of breakfast.  The
dragoons raced to their steeds, mounted, and were
soon galloping with Mr. Polwhele towards the
village.  In a few minutes they overtook the
disconsolate tub-carriers.

"Aha, you black-faced rascals!" cried Mr. Polwhele
as he galloped by, adding jocularly: "Stir
your stumps and come and fight Boney."

"Not if I knows it," muttered Nancarrow, and
forthwith struck inland, followed by the farm-hands.
The fishers, being of sterner stuff, and taking
Mr. Polwhele seriously, hastened their step, thinking of
their wives and children in the village, perhaps at the
mercy of the Corsican Ogre.

Mr. Polwhele and the dragoons had got half-way
to Polkerran when they were met by the Vicar's
messenger to Sir Bevil, and reined up.

"Pa'son sent me to fetch Sir Bevil and yeomanry,
sir," said the man.  "The French hev landed."

"Good heavens!  Is it Boney himself?" cried the
riding-officer.

"No, it be Maister Delarousse from Rusco: he've
come and catched Maister John, and hev shet hisself
in the inn."

"Delarousse, begad!  Well, my men, there's a
thousand pounds offered for the capture of that
rascally Frenchman.  Ride on, then; we'll have the
villain!"

They galloped on, sparks flying from beneath the
horses' hoofs.  When they came to the crest of the
high ground overlooking the Towers, they saw
smoke and flame rising from the Dower House, and
spurred the faster.  In another minute they spied
three figures making their way towards the Towers.
The middle one of the three was a plump, red-faced
woman in a print dress, her bonnet askew, her
ribbons flying.  On the left she was supported by a
sturdy, thick-set lad, on the right by a slim and
comely maid.  Each clasped the woman about the
waist, their arms crossing, and thus assisted her
slowly over the ground.  The dragoons kissed
their hands gallantly to the maid as they flashed by.

"All safe at the Towers, Sam?" shouted Mr. Polwhele.

But Sam at that moment was too self-conscious
and abashed to reply.

Meanwhile the whole population of Polkerran
was gathered on the shore of the harbour, watching
the privateer fade away into the distance, and
discussing the extraordinary events of the past hour.
Doubledick and Tonkin were the centre of an
excited throng, to whom they had to relate over
again the tale of John Trevanion's iniquities.  The
Squire and Mr. Carlyon had withdrawn to the
inn-parlour, where they sat conversing over their pipes
and glasses of rum shrub.  Some of the children had
climbed the hill to witness the Dower House
blazing.  Nobody thought of making an attempt to
save the place, which indeed would have been
impossible.

"Well," said Petherick, in the midst of the
crowd, "'tis the Lord's doin', and marvellous in our
eyes.  But now I axe 'ee, Zacky, where be yer boy
Jake?"

"What d'ye mean, constable?" asked the fisher.

"Ah! the neighbours hev been too stirred up in
their minds to tell 'ee.  No one hain't seed Jake
since Wednesday night, and 'tis the question we all
do axe, whether he be in the land o' the livin' or
not."

"Dear name!  Do 'ee tell me?" cried Tonkin.
"Bean't he with the carriers?"

"Seemingly not," said one of the women.  "I
seed yer missis cryin' her eyes out yesterday,
neighbour Zacky."

"Maybe he's took away for a sojer or sailor,"
suggested Doubledick.  "He wented up-along to
pluck mistletoe, so 'tis said, and maybe was pounced
on by some rovin' sergeant on dark lonesome moor."

At this moment a cheer was heard from the
direction of the hill, and then the ringing clatter of
horses' hoofs.  A boy ran up.

"Riding-officer and sojers be comin' down hill,"
he cried.

Tonkin darted a glance around.  The horsemen
were approaching at a walking pace down the
steepest part of the descent.  It suddenly flashed
upon him that his lugger had a cargo of contraband
on board, which it behoved him to secure before the
riding-officer could lay hands on it.  For the
moment his anxiety for Jake was eclipsed.

"Lunnan Cove an hour after sundown," he
whispered to Doubledick, then slipped away, and
ran at headlong speed along the jetty.  Four of
the fishermen at the same moment set off with him,
but instead of going on the jetty, they hastened at
the double along the beach, following its curve
towards the southern end of the reef.

All this time the lugger had lain within the reef.
Pennycomequick, proud of his achievement, was
waiting until, the excitement on shore having
subsided, he could run her in and draw all eyes to
himself.

On reaching the end of the jetty, Tonkin, one of
the very few fishermen who could swim, dived into
the water and swam towards his vessel.  Pennycomequick
flung him a rope.  He heaved himself on board,
secured one of the smaller boats which the Frenchmen
had set adrift, and made it fast by the painter to
the stern of the lugger.  Then he hauled up the
anchor, and hoisted sail, apparently with the intention
of running in to the jetty.  All his movements were
deliberate.

At this moment Mr. Polwhele reached the inn.
A hundred voices shouted that the Frenchman had
got away; then catching sight of the lugger, with a
sudden inspiration he galloped across to the jetty,
calling on the dragoons to follow him.

"Hi, Tonkin!" he shouted, "I want to have a
look at your cargo, my man."

But Tonkin, as if he had not heard the riding-officer's
voice, suddenly put up the helm and stood
away towards the reef.  It was ebb tide: the rugged
line of rocks was exposed; and as the lugger came
within a few feet of it, a number of men could be
seen jumping from rock to rock, sometimes wading
in the pools between them, in the direction of the
vessel.  They were too far away for their features or
their gait to be distinguished, but any one counting
them would have found that they were not four, but
five.  Tonkin sprang into the boat, rowed to the reef
and took the men off, then returned to the lugger.  All
the men clambered on board, the boat was made fast,
and the vessel sailed across the bay, but in a few
minutes suddenly brought up again.  Once more
Tonkin entered the small boat, this time accompanied
by another man.  He landed him on the reef, rowed
back to the lugger, and while this threaded the
fairway between the fallen rock and the cliff, the man
returned to the shore and disappeared.

Mr. Polwhele bit his lips with chagrin, observing
a snigger on the faces of the crowd.  Then he rode
back to the inn, dismounted, and entered, to learn
the details of the recent events from the Squire, and
to give in his turn particulars of his futile errand at
the creek.

A few minutes later Sir Bevil Portharvan rode
down at the head of a troop of yeomanry.  He, too,
entered the inn, and Doubledick enjoyed a brief
moment of importance when, at Mr. Carlyon's
request, he explained the relations between
Delarousse and John Trevanion.  Sir Bevil's ruddy
cheeks turned pale with rage and mortification.

"Thank God!" he murmured.

"'Tis indeed a mercy," said the Vicar.  "I
sympathise with you with all my heart, Sir Bevil."

"The scoundrel!" cried the baronet.  "Trevanion,
I beg your pardon.  I have listened to that villain,
and had hard thoughts of you.  Good heavens! he
was to have married my daughter."

"Poor girl!" said the Squire.  "I knew my
cousin, Sir Bevil.  I should have warned you,
only——"

"Only I was a fool, Trevanion.  Your warning
would have fallen on deaf ears; my mind was
poisoned against you.  Forgive me."

The two men shook hands, and soon afterwards
left the inn with Mr. Carlyon, the riding-officer
remaining behind.

"Doubledick," he said, when alone with the
inn-keeper, "you had better get away.  I've got Jake
Tonkin locked up in my house—caught him spying
on you the other night.  I can't keep him much
longer, and as soon as he is free your life won't be
worth a snap, if I know his father."

The innkeeper shivered.

"For mercy sake, sir, hold him until to-morrer
mornin'!  I'll go away this very night.  Hold him,
sir, and I'll tell 'ee wheer Zacky do mean to run the
cargo."

"A traitor to the last!" cried Mr. Polwhele.
"'Tis my duty to the King to listen to you.  Well?"

"'Tis at Lunnan Cove, sir, an hour after sun-down."

"Ha!  That fellow who ran along the reef is
making the arrangements, no doubt.  Well, I'll
hold the boy till daylight to-morrow, but not an
instant longer.  'Tis illegal, and they may *habeas
corpus* me.  So take my warning.  What about your
wife?"

"She must bide here a little until I hev found a
home for her.  Zacky won't hurt a woman.  'Tis
a terrible thing to leave the place I've dwelt in for
thirty year."

"You've only yourself to blame.  I wish you no
harm, but take my advice: live straight for the rest
of your days.  I shan't see you again."

He left the inn, and rode up the hill to look for
the arrival of the cutter.  The Dower House was
still blazing, watched by an immense crowd of
villagers, dragoons, yeomanry, and folk from the
neighbouring farms, who had flocked in when they
saw the glare.  There was at present no sign of the
cutter, and Mr. Polwhele, tired out by his night's
vigil, rode back to his own house, to hoist on his
flagstaff a signal to Mr. Mildmay, and then to have
a meal and rest.

Unlocking the door of the room in which Jake
Tonkin had been confined, he was amazed and
alarmed to see that it was no longer occupied.  One
of the iron bars across the window had been
wrenched away after patient work in loosening the
sockets, and the prisoner had dropped sixteen feet to
the ground.  Mr. Polwhele called up his housekeeper,
whom he had forbidden to disclose Jake's
whereabouts on pain of dismissal.

"You knew nothing of this, Mary?" he asked.

"No, indeed, sir.  I neither heard un nor seed un."

"Well, say nothing about it.  I want you to take
a note for me at once to Doubledick at the inn.
Put on your bonnet."

By the time the woman was ready, Mr. Polwhele
had scribbled a brief note.  "J. has escaped: don't
wait."

"Be sure and give it to Doubledick himself," he said.

"Iss, I woll, sir," said the woman.

An hour afterwards Mr. Mildmay came up to the house.

"This is the worst slap in the face we have ever
had, Polwhele," he said.  "Why on earth didn't
you collar Tonkin?"

"Why didn't you?" retorted the riding-officer
angrily.  "The cutter is for chasing luggers, not
my horse."

"Don't fly out at me.  We are both in the same
hole.  The only pleasant feature in the whole
miserable business is that Trevanion will never
freight another cargo."

"What do you suppose Delarousse will do with him?"

"Skin him, I should think.  What a pair of
numskulls we have been about that plausible
scoundrel!"

"A good riddance to the Squire, too," said the
riding-officer.  "But the property is still his, I
suppose."

"Without doubt.  The Dower House will be a
heap of ashes, but the land and the mine are still
John Trevanion's, for all they were bought with
money villainously come by.  However, the miners
haven't brought up enough metal to buy their
candles, and as there is no one to pay their wages,
they'll close down again, certainly.  By the way,
you still have young Jake, I suppose?"

"No, confound it all!  He escaped this morning.
I fancy he must have been among those fellows who
got along the reef to the lugger."

"Whew!  Doubledick had better make himself
scarce, then."

"Yes; I have sent Mary down with a note for
him.  I had promised him to keep Jake till
to-morrow morning, in return for a piece of
information."

"What! a run after all?"

"Yes, Tonkin intends to run at Lunnan Cove
to-night.  We'll not let him slip this time."

"By George, no!  I shall enjoy my Christmas
better if we've dished that bold fellow.  I'll go back
to the cutter and turn in for a spell.  You'll arrange
with the dragoons?"

"I will.  They're not in the sweetest of tempers,
I assure you, and no wonder.  But I told them to
go and get a sleep at the inn, and made 'em swear to
keep sober.  Mrs. Doubledick won't give them
too much to drink, however; I threatened her with
pains and penalties if she did."

"Have a thimbleful before you go, Mildmay.
We'll drink to success at Lunnan Cove."

Mr. Polwhele's housekeeper set out with the firm
intention of carrying the note straight to Doubledick.
But the sight of the blazing mansion was too much
for her resolution; so magnificent a spectacle had
never been seen at Polkerran before.  When she
reached the bridge, instead of turning to the left
towards the inn, she went straight along the road,
intending to watch the fire at close quarters for a
little while, and call on Doubledick on the way back.
She had put the note into her pocket.

On arriving near the Dower House, she met
several acquaintances among the crowd, and walked
with them round to the north side of the blaze,
to avoid the smoke and sparks blown by the north-east
wind.  The wind had been increasing in force
since the early morning, and blew the women's
skirts about as they stood with their backs to it.

"Mind yer bonnet, my dear," said one of them
to the housekeeper.  "Ye wouldn't like to see it
blowed into the bonfire, that I'm sure of."

"Bonnet-strings be poor useless things in a wind
like this," said another.  "I'll tie my handkercher
over my head, and I reckon ye'd better do the same,
my dear."

"Iss, I think," said the housekeeper, drawing her
handkerchief from her pocket.

With it came a fluttering scrap of paper.  She
clutched at it, but a gust of wind caught it, and
swept it along into the midst of the glowing
building.

"Drat it all!" she cried with vexation.

"'Tis to be hoped 'twas not vallyble, my dear,"
said one of her friends.

"If 'tis a love-letter," said another, "and ye can't
hold the man to his promise, 'twill be a gashly
misfortune, to be sure, though maybe he's a poor
slack-twisted feller as ye'll be glad to be rid of."

"No, 'tis not that," said the housekeeper.

"Well, ye needn't werrit, if 'tis a bill for yer
maister's goods.  Bills come over again, 'nation
take 'em."

But the housekeeper gave nothing to the probings
of neighbourly curiosity.  Afraid to meet her
master lest he should question her, she remained for
several hours in the village, taking care not to return
home until she learnt from a small boy that
Mr. Polwhele had been seen riding inland towards
Redruth among the dragoons.

Doubledick was on tenter-hooks all that day.  His
customers noticed how pale he was, and commiserated
him on being "took bad" the day before Christmas.
He jumped at the entrance of every new-comer.  A
great part of the day he spent in the seclusion of his
cellar, gathering together a few valuables, which he
placed along with his hoarded money in two stout
bags.  As evening drew on he became more and
more restless and irritable, and gave short answers to
his customers, wishing with all his heart that he could
close his door.  He dared not leave the village in
daylight, for so many people were about, discussing
the incidents of the morning, that he could hardly
have escaped without being seen by some one.  Never
in all his smuggling ventures did he long for
darkness as he longed for it to-day.

About six o'clock a lad ran into the inn with the
news that a flare had been seen towards Lunnan
Cove.  It was the time when Tonkin had arranged
to make the run, and Doubledick took the flare as a
signal from the riding-officer to Mr. Mildmay on
the cutter.  The customers poured out of the inn, in
anticipation of more excitement before they retired
to rest.

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile there had been interesting doings at
the Towers.  When the Squire, with Tonkin's party,
pursued the Frenchmen down the hill, Sam Pollex
slipped away and ran with all his might to the Dower
House, where the alarm bell was clanging, while
smoke poured from the lower windows.  He dashed
into the house, found the cook in hysterics in the
kitchen, and receiving no answer from her when he
demanded where Maidy Susan was, hunted through
all the floors until at last he discovered her in an
attic, tugging frantically at the bell-rope.

"Oh, maidy," he said, "come wi' me, or you'll be
smothered in the burnin' fiery furnace.  Yer maister
be took; come, maidy, please."

He removed the rope from the girl's hands, put
his arm about her, and led her quickly down the
stairs.

"Where be Cook?" she cried, gasping, half
suffocated by the rolling smoke.

"In kitchen, hollerin' and screamin'," replied Sam.

"Oh! poor thing, we can't leave her.  Come,
Sam, quick."

They ran into the kitchen, and while Susan tried
to calm the frenzied woman, Sam took down her
bonnet from its peg, and set it, hind part before, on
her head.  Then they lifted her, and led her out
into the open air.

"Wherever shall we go?" said Susan.  "I
declare, I've left all my things behind; I must go
back for them."

"Never in life!" said Sam.  "I can't hold this
great big female up wi'out 'ee.  You must come
home-along wi' me.  Mistress will take 'ee in: she
do hev a kind heart."

Thus it happened that when Dick reached
home in company with the Vicar, Sam met him
at the door with a face like the rising sun, and
whispered:

"She've come, Maister Dick!"

"Who has come?" asked Dick.

"Maidy Susan, to be sure.  Mistress hev right-down
took to her, I do believe.  Cook be here, too,
and Feyther do look tarrible low in the sperits, 'cos
she told un he'd no more idee than a chiel o' three
how to stir up a figgy pudden."

When Dick joined his parents, he found them
discussing the future of the two women with
Mr. Carlyon.

"We can't afford to keep them, you know,
Vicar," said Mrs. Trevanion.  "The girl seems a
pleasant, handy young thing, and I should like her
about the house much better than young Sam;
but——"

"Exactly," said the Vicar.  "Well now, 'tis
Christmas Eve.  Shall we forget all our troubles,
and get our souls in tune for to-morrow?  One
thing makes for peace, and that is the disappearance
of John Trevanion, to whom I trace all the
unneighbourly feeling between the village and you."

Thus the matter was left.  After the Vicar had
drunk a dish of tea, he walked back in Dick's
company to the Parsonage, his horse having not yet
been returned to him.

When Mr. Polwhele and the dragoons were seen
riding in the direction of Redruth, they were really
proceeding to a sheltered spot on the coast whence
they could watch for the flare which was to signal the
approach of the *Isaac and Jacob* to Lunnan Cove.
Mr. Mildmay's cutter was lurking behind a headland
not far away.  As soon as the blue light was seen,
the riding-officer galloped to the spot, and saw, a
little distance out at sea, a dark shape, which from its
size he knew to be the lugger.  Igniting another blue
light, he was surprised to find that the vessel was
making no effort to escape, nor was there the bustle
on board that might have been expected.  There
were no tub-carriers in sight; no doubt, thought he,
they had scattered on seeing the flare.  He reined
up on the beach, and waited for the cutter to appear.

In a few minutes he heard Mr. Mildmay hail the
lugger, and by the aid of another light he saw the
cutter run alongside, and a rummaging crew spring
aboard the *Isaac and Jacob*, without opposition.
Lamps were lit on deck, and the figures of the
lieutenant's men could be seen descending into the
hold.  Immediately afterwards there was a burst of
rough laughter, mingled with a volley of curses; the
sailors emerged from the hatchway one by one, and
Mr. Mildmay's quarter-deck voice was heard abusing
something or somebody.  Then he and his men
returned to the cutter, which headed for the shore,
while the lugger set her sails and stood out towards
the harbour.

"Fooled again, Polwhele!" cried the lieutenant,
when he came within hailing distance.  "The hold
is empty, and Jake Tonkin, young Pendry,
Pennycomequick, and half a dozen more are grinning
their heads off."

"Confusion seize 'em!" exclaimed Mr. Polwhele.
"I see it!  That rascal has betrayed us, in
the hope of redeeming himself with Tonkin.  Well,
we deserve it for joining in with such a scoundrel.
Depend upon it, they've made their run somewhere
else, and are laughing in their sleeves."

The crestfallen officer dismissed the dragoons,
who were chuckling at his discomfiture, and rode
home.

.. vspace:: 2

When Jake Tonkin escaped from Mr. Polwhele's
house, he took the shortest cut over the cliffs to the
harbour, and reached the shore just as the four men
were running to gain the lugger by way of the reef.
He joined them, and on meeting his father told him
in a few words about Doubledick's treachery.
Tonkin immediately sent a man back to countermand
the order to await him at Lunnan Cove, and to
arrange secretly with the tub-carriers to assemble at
the spot previously chosen, the creek five miles to
the north.  He had then run out to sea, and, taking
advantage of the mist, made a circuit that brought
him astern of the cutter, which was then returning
to the harbour.  He sunk his cargo near the mouth
of the creek, stepped with one man into the small
boat he had taken in tow, and sent the rest out to
sea again in the lugger, instructing them to make
for Lunnan Cove at the appointed time.

Consequently, at the moment when the officers
were condoling with each other, Tonkin and his
man were rowing into the creek, towards a large body
of tub-carriers gathered on the shore.  The boat
moved very slowly, and a light thrown on the scene
would have revealed, attached to its stern, a rope on
which the first of a line of tubs was bobbing up and
down.  When it came within a few yards of the
waiting men, half a dozen of them waded out and
drew it high on the beach.  The rope was then
hauled in, scarcely a word being spoken, and in less
than ten minutes thirty men, each carrying two tubs
slung across his shoulders, were trudging to their
appointed destinations.

Tonkin was alone.  As soon as the men had
disappeared, he removed a plug from the bottom of the
boat, and pushed it towards the middle of the stream,
where it sank in eight feet of water.  Then he
set off with long strides towards the village.  His
business was accomplished: now he could deal with
Doubledick.

A few minutes after the flare had been announced
in the inn, Doubledick, left alone for a moment, let
himself down into the cellar.  Not even his wife
knew of his design.  He slipped on a pair of
goloshes, took up two heavy and cumbersome sacks,
slung them over his shoulders, and hurried through
the secret passage, which opened half-way up the
narrow-stepped lane.  The night was very dark;
there was a blind wall on each side of the lane; and
no one saw the laden man as he crept stealthily up
the steps.  Soon he came to a similar passage at right
angles to the other, leading down to the bank of the
stream.  He turned into this, went more quickly to
the bottom, and then trudged along among the
rushes in the direction of the bridge.

Coming to that point, he did not ascend by the
steps that led to the road, but passed under the
arches and continued his way along the stream.
When he had walked about a quarter of a mile, he
paused for a minute or two to take breath, then
laboriously climbed up the steep bank with the
assistance of bushes and saplings, and came panting
to the top.  He was now within a few yards of
the path that led past the Parsonage across the moor,
and joined the Truro road after a winding course of
nearly a mile.  At this hour of the evening he had
no doubt that the Vicar would be in his study, and
his small household engaged in preparations for the
morrow.

Doubledick had gone only a short distance, however,
along the path, when he caught sight of a figure
coming in the other direction.  Instantly he stepped
on to the grass on the left, and picked his way as
carefully as he could in the darkness over the rough
ground and among the furze bushes.  He dared not
turn his head.  The merest glimpse of a pedestrian
was enough to set him quaking; nor had he the
courage now to make his way back to the path.
Having met one person he might meet another.  In
his state of panic-fear he saw in every dark bush a
man lying in wait for him, and the thought of
tramping for miles over this desolate moor filled him
with terror.  There was another way to Truro, by
the high-road running past the Towers to the
cross-road from Newquay.  In a few minutes, therefore,
he turned again to the left, and struck across the
uneven ground towards a point about midway
between the Dower House and the Towers.  Dark
as the night was, he would at least see the road and
fare more easily upon it.  Passers were rare at this
hour, and he hoped, if he should chance to meet
any one, to catch sight of him in time to slip aside
on to the dark moorland.

As he came to the road, he threw a glance to the
left, where the ruins of the Dower House were
smouldering, sparks now and then flying southward
on the wind.  The sight awoke no reflections,
regrets, remorse, in his soul.  He was obsessed by
anxiety for his own safety.

Dick, having accompanied Mr. Carlyon to the
Parsonage, remained there for an hour or two, talking
over the strange events of the day, and then started
homeward along the path that would bring him to
the bridge.  He noticed a man, bowed beneath a
load, turn aside on to the moor, and chuckled at the
thought that perhaps the smugglers had made their
run after all, and this was one of the tub-carriers
conveying his precious load to an expectant farmer.
Well, it was no business of his.  He went on until
he came to the road, turned to the right, sniffing as
the wind brought pungent smoke to his nostrils, and
when he came opposite to the Dower House, which
the spectators had now deserted, halted for a few
moments to contemplate the empty shell, momentarily
lit up as a gust stirred the embers.  It was little
more than three months since John Trevanion
entered into possession.  How swiftly retribution
had overtaken him for the ill that he had done!  In
the short space of an hour his prosperity had vanished
like the smoke from his burning house, and he was
gone to pay the penalty, Dick could not doubt, for
the fraud and trickery of years.

Turning away from the smoking ruins, Dick
pursued his homeward way.  A few minutes later
he was surprised to see, stepping into the road from
the unfenced moorland, the same figure as he had
seen twenty minutes before going in the contrary
direction.  The man had come from the village;
why then had he chosen so roundabout a route?
His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Dick hurried on
after the lumbering figure, expecting to overtake it
before it reached the Towers.  He was struck by the
strange fact that while his own footsteps rang on the
hard surface of the road, he heard nothing of the
movements of the man in front, though the wind
was blowing towards him.  Fast as he walked, the
distance between them did not appear to lessen.  He
was convinced now that the man was a smuggler,
hurrying to avoid observation.  He slackened his
pace; it was not worth while chasing the man, even
to discover his identity.  To-morrow was Christmas;
he was going to sell his burden, so that he might
have the wherewithal to make merry on the festive day.

The man had just passed the gate leading to the
Towers.  In less than a minute Dick would turn
into the drive and lose sight of him.  But suddenly
there was a dull thud behind, and a glare momentarily
lit up the sky.  A portion of the masonry of the
Dower House had fallen into the smouldering mass
below, and stirred a fitful flame.  Immediately
afterwards he heard a hoarse cry in front, then a sound
of scrambling, of snapping twigs, of heavy footsteps
in the field on the other side of the hedge in the
direction of St. Cuby's Well.  Dick knew that there
was a gap a few yards beyond the gate; he raced
on, forced his way through, and sprinted after the
retreating footsteps.  Coming on to higher ground,
he was able to see, in the dim diffused light thrown
by the flickering flames behind, two figures, separated
by a short interval, rushing towards the well.  One
minute they were visible; the next, where the ground
dipped, they disappeared into pitchy darkness.

Dick saw that the second figure was steadily
gaining on the first.  Leaving the zigzag course that
had been traced by the smugglers, and was now
followed by the fugitive, the pursuer ran in a more
direct line for the well.  The former, perceiving
with the instinct of a hunted animal that he was
being headed off, and could not reach the haven of
the ruined chapel, towards which he was hurrying,
without encountering the other, suddenly swerved to
the left in the direction of the cliff.  He was followed
instantly by the second man, who now seemed to
leap after him like a wild animal after its prey.  In
a few moments, just as they came to the brink of
the cliff, the two men closed.  Running towards
them at headlong speed, Dick heard a furious cry, a
scream of terror, and saw one of the men lifted from
his feet above the head of the other.  But before the
captor could summon his strength for the effort of
hurling the captive over the edge of the cliff, Dick
flung himself forward, caught the victim's feet, and
tugged him violently back.  A savage oath broke
from the other man's lips.  He staggered backward,
and attempting to recover his footing, let his burden
drop with a dull thud and a jingling crash to the
ground.

"Tonkin!" cried Dick, "what are you doing?"

"Out of my way!" shouted the man, throwing
himself upon the prostrate figure, from which there
came a piteous squeal for mercy.

Dick tried to drag the smuggler from his victim,
but he might as readily have moved an oak.

"Tonkin, I say!" he cried in agitation, "for
God's sake get up.  Would you commit murder,
like the murderer at the well?  Think!  Calm
yourself!  'Tis Christmas Eve."

A terrible scream rent the air.  Dick caught Tonkin
by the collar and exerted all his strength to pull him
from the fallen body.  Finding this useless, he flung
himself on the ground beside him, and tried to loosen
his grip on the man's throat.  He was in despair,
when he heard a shout near at hand, and the next
moment Penwarden rushed to the spot, carrying a
lantern.

"'Tis you, Zacky Tonkin!" he cried.  "Get on
your feet, or I don't care who the man is, I'll arrest
'ee in the King's name."

The light of the lantern fell on the distorted face
beneath him, and for the first time Dick saw that the
victim was Doubledick.

"Think of yer wife and boy," said Penwarden.
"Shall they lose 'ee for such as he?"

Tonkin's first frenzy of rage had spent itself.  He
slowly rose to his feet, leaving the innkeeper gasping,
half-throttled.

There was silence for a space.  Dick and
Penwarden were held spellbound by the expression
upon Tonkin's strong, rugged face.  He stood like
a statue, gazing down upon the huddled figure of
Doubledick.  Then he turned.

"You see that man!" he said, in a voice
surcharged with emotion.  "He was my friend.  I
trusted him.  He and I hev worked together this
many year, fair and foul, winter and summer.  And
now I know him for what he is, a spy, an informer,
that takes money for betrayin' his true mates.  Ay,
and when things came to nought, he said 'twas my
own son that split on us.  Look 'ee see!  He
carr's his wages wi' un, afeard o' the face of an
honest man.  Worm that he is, let him crawl his
way to everlastin' bonfire; but no price o' blood
shall he take along, nor no one else shall touch it
for evermore."

He stooped, wrenched the bags from the rope,
which snapped in his mighty hands like thread, and,
lifting each high above his head, hurled it far out
into the sea.  Then, turning on his heel, he strode
away, and was swallowed up in the black night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Peace and Goodwill`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH


.. class:: center medium

   Peace and Goodwill

.. vspace:: 2

"A merry Christmas!" cried Dick, going into
his parents' bedroom early in the morning.

"Thank'ee, my boy," said the Squire.  "'Twill be
the last Christmas we shall spend within these walls,
so we will be as merry as we can....  Bless my
life!  Who is that singing?"

Through the open door came the sound of a clear
young voice:

   |  "I saw three ships come sailin' in
   |    On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
   |  I saw three ships come sailin' in
   |    On Christmas Day in the mornin'."
   |

"'Tis Susan, sir, no doubt," replied Dick.

"Dear me, I had forgotten the maid.  Well,
'tis a sweet voice.  She is merry enough, poor soul."

"A very nice girl," said Mrs. Trevanion.  "Listen!"

   |  "And what was in those ships all three,
   |    On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?
   |  And what was in those ships——"
   |

The singing was interrupted by a rippling peal
of laughter.

"Oh, Sam, you'll be the death o' me!" said
Maidy Susan.  "If you could only see the face
of 'ee."

"What be purticler about the face o' me?" asked
Sam.

"Oh, I can't tell 'ee, only it do make me smile.
What was ye thinkin' of?"

"Why, I was wishin' one o' they ships was
Maister's—his ship come home, as folks do say."

"Silly boy!  'Twas thousands o' years ago:

   |  "And what was in those ships all three,
   |    On Christmas Day in the mornin'?"
   |

"Well, I never heerd that psalm afore.  Troll it
over to Pendry afore church; he've got a wonderful
ear, and if ye sing it twice he'll play it on his fiddle
bang through wi'out stoppin'.  Maybe Pa'son will
command us to sing it instead of 'Aaron's Beard'
or 'Now Isr'el say.'"

"I can't go to church, Sam.  I must stay and
help Cook."

"No; be-jowned if 'ee do.  Old Feyther be man
enough to help Cook, wi' sech a little small pudden
and all.  If we'd only knowed ye were comin' we'd
ha' made it bigger, cost what it might.  But you
shall have my share, Maidy, so don't be cast down
in yer soul."

"Bless the boy!  Do 'ee think I can't live wi'out
pudden?"

"Well, then, if that be yer mind, I'll eat the
pudden, and you hev two servings o' pig—but not
too much apple sauce, Maidy."

"Good now!  You do talk and talk, and there's
the boots to clean and the cloth to lay.  We'll never
be done.  Be off with 'ee."

The voices ceased.

"A very nice girl," repeated Mrs. Trevanion
with a sigh.  "I wish we could keep her.  She would
have a good influence on Sam, who is inclined to be
idle."

Dick smiled.

"When my ship comes home, my dear," said the
Squire.  "Upon my word, 'tis cheering to hear a
song in the morning, and the sun shining, too.  I
think the fire yesterday has burnt some of my
melancholy away."

After breakfast they walked over to the church.
The people assembled in the churchyard bobbed and
curtsied as the party from the Towers passed up the
path, and wished them a merry Christmas, a sign of
renewed friendliness which made the Squire glow
with pleasure.  There was a large congregation, and
everybody expected that the Vicar would preach a
sermon bearing on the events of the previous day.
He had indeed looked out two old discourses, one on
the text, "The wages of sin is death," the other on
"The ways of transgressors are hard"; but he
replaced them in his drawer, and selected a third,
on the verse, "Peace on earth, goodwill towards men."

"I won't spoil the day for them," he said to
himself; "but they shall not get off; they shall have
something warming next Sunday."  The worthy
man did not foresee that next Sunday the church
would be half empty, the people having concluded
that he had found the iniquities of John Trevanion
an unprofitable theme.

After church the young folks trooped into the
barn, where a Christmas dinner had been spread for
them, and the men flocked down to the village, to
spend an hour while their wives prepared the meal.
For the first time in the history of the parish they
passed by the open door of the Five Pilchards
and made their way to the Three Jolly Mariners,
to the delight of the innkeeper and the amazement
of its few *habitués*.

In the afternoon someone suggested that they
should row out to the fairway to see the rock which
Dick had thrown down.  The oldsters, after their
Christmas dinner, were disinclined to move; but Jake
Tonkin, Ike Pendry, and others of the younger
generation hailed the opportunity of stretching their
legs, and a procession of boats rowed out to the spot.
The sun, by this time creeping to the west, lit up the
face of the cliff with a ruddy gleam, and a young
miner, perched on the top of the rock, called the
attention of the others to the appearance of curious
streaks on the rugged surface of the promontory,
where the falling rock had struck off fragments as it
bounded down.

"They look uncommon like silver," said he.

"'Tis the deceivin' sun," said Jake Tonkin.
"Theer bean't neither silver nor tin worth delvin'
for hereabouts."

"Maybe, but I be goin' to see," said the miner.
"Gie me that boat-hook, my sonny."

He got into a boat, and was rowed to the base of
the cliff, whence he climbed with careful step.  The
others watched him with more interest in his feat
than in the object of it.  On reaching one of the
longest of the streaks he hacked at the rock with the
hook, then suddenly looked round, and cried—

"Daze me, my sonnies, if it bean't as good silver
tin ore as ever I seed.  There's riches here, take my
word for't."

"Be-jowned if I bean't fust to tell Squire," cried
Jake Tonkin, instantly pulling his boat round and
making for the shore.  The others followed him,
deaf to the entreaties of the miner to come back and
take him off.  Half-a-dozen boats raced madly to
the beach; a score of youths sprang out, dashed
through the village, up the hill, and along the high
road.  One, thinking to gain an advantage over the
rest, tried to leap one of John Trevanion's fences, and
fell headlong to the ground, his competitors shouting
with laughter, none attempting to emulate him.

Jabez Mail, the son of Simon, arrived first at the
Towers, but Ike Pendry, only a yard behind, caught
him by the tail of his Sunday coat, and while the two
were wrestling, Jake Tonkin slipped past them and
rushed into the house without knocking.  Remembering
the situation of the Squire's room from his
last visit, he ran straight to it, followed by a dozen
others, some entering with him, others crowding at
the door.

Within the room sat the Squire and Dick, with the
Vicar, Mr. Mildmay, and Mr. Polwhele, smoking
before a huge log fire.  They had started up at the
sound of heavy boots clattering along the passage,
and stood in amazement as the young fishers, red and
blown with running, clumped in.

"What do you mean by this?" exclaimed the
Squire testily.  "D'you think this is an inn?"

Jake, the foremost, was at once overcome by his
habitual sheepishness, and stood as though glued to
the floor, twisting his hat between his hands, and
grinning vacantly.  Ike Pendry thrust him aside.

"Please, sir, I be come——" he began.

"Scrounch 'ee, I was fust!" cried Jake, suddenly
recovering his speech, and sticking his elbow into
Ike's ribs.

"Now, now," said Mr. Carlyon severely, "this is
very unmannerly behaviour.  What do you mean
by it?"

"Please, yer reverence," said Ike, "theer be great
and noble riches down-along at Beal.  We be come
with all our legs to tell Squire."

"I was fust," added Jake.

"You're a liard," said young Mail, thrusting his
way to the front.  "I was fust, only Ike Pendry
catched me by the tail o' my coat, which he couldn'
ha' done if 'twere a common day."

"Well, then, Jabez," said the Vicar, "as you
seem to have best command of your breath,
perhaps you will tell us the meaning of these antics."

"Iss, fay, that I woll," said the lad.  "We pulled
out to the Beal, to see wi' our own eyes the rock as
Maister Dick tumbled down, and Tim Solly, the
miner, says, says he, 'Be-jowned, my sonnies, if it
bean't the noblest silver tin as ever I seed.'  'Twas
the rock, yer reverence, and genelum all, had strook
away the ground as covered it, and theer 'tis, bidin'
to be dug out."

The Squire's face, as he listened to this, flushed
and paled by turns.

"This is most extraordinary," said the Vicar.  "I
think we had better all go down to the Beal and see
for ourselves."

"We will," said Mr. Polwhele.  "Come along, Squire."

"'Tis pure fancy," murmured the Squire.  "The
ore would have been discovered long ago if it
existed.  My old mine comes within a few yards of
the Beal."

"We can but see," said Mr. Mildmay.  "Let us
go at once, before the sun is down."

They hurried forth, the messengers following,
Sam being now among them.  As they went, the
crowd was increased by many more of the villagers,
who had poured out of their houses when they
heard of the stampede.  In a few minutes they
reached the Beal, at the spot where the fallen rock
had stood.

"Hi!" shouted a voice from below; "up or
down, I don't care which it be, but I can't bide here
all the cold night."

"Don't 'ee werrit, my son," said Tonkin, who
had joined the throng.  "Fling up a mossel o' that
shinin' rock they tell about."

"Mind yer head, then, my dear, or 'twill hurt 'ee."

Up came a jagged knob of rock, which Tonkin
deftly caught and handed to the Squire.  A breathless
silence fell on the crowd as he turned it over in
his trembling hands.  He passed it to Mr. Polwhele,
and he in turn to the foreman of Trevanion's mine,
who stood by.

"'Tis tin ore, gentlemen, without doubt," he said,
"and, I think, very rich in metal.  You will do well,
sir, to bring an assayer to test it."

His words were received with a joyous shout.
Caps were flung into the air; a hundred lusty
throats roared cheers for the Squire.  Mr. Carlyon
grasped his old friend's hand.

"'Hold fast the rock by the western sea!'" he
said.  "Wonderful!  Wonderful!"

"Let us keep our heads," said the Squire.  "It
may be a false hope."

"Hi!" shouted the miner.  "When be I a-comin'
up-along?"

"Never, my son," cried Tonkin.  "We can't heave
'ee up wi'out doin' a deal o' damage to yer mortal
frame.  Bide quiet, and we'll fetch 'ee in a boat."

"I'll never disbelieve in witches again," said the
Vicar.  "Dick!  Where is the boy?  'Twas an
inspiration—upon my word it was."

Dick was not to be found.  He was running like
a deer to tell his mother the great news.  Sam
followed, hopelessly outstripped, eager to pour the
story into the ears of Maidy Susan.  The Squire
and his friends returned more slowly to the house,
and the people, giving him a parting cheer, hurried
to the village.

When a mixed crowd of fishers, farmers, and
miners entered the taproom of the Three Jolly
Mariners, they found Joe Penwarden comfortably
settled in the place nearest the fire.  As an
excise-man, he had never frequented the smugglers' haunt
at the Five Pilchards, but occasionally dropped
in for a glass at the other inn.  Observing Tonkin,
Pendry, and a dozen more free-traders among the
newcomers, he shook the ashes out of his church-warden,
gulped down his grog, and rose to go.  It
was against the rules of the service to consort with
smugglers, known or suspected.

"Bide where ye be, Maister," said Tonkin,
heartily.  "'Tis peace and goodwill to-day, and
though some may hate 'ee like a toad o' common
days, we'll treat 'ee like a true Christian to-day;
what do 'ee say, neighbours all?"

"Ay, Maister," said Pendry, "set 'ee down and
hark to the noble history we've got to tell 'ee.  'Tis
rum-hot all round—eh, souls?"

They pressed Penwarden into his chair, and, all
speaking together, poured into his ears the story of
the great discovery.

"Well," he said presently, "'tis the noblest
Christmas box as ever man got in this weary world."

"Iss, sure," said Petherick, adding in his
ecclesiastical manner, "'Tis 'My soul doth magnify' for
Squire and parish too, I don't care who the man is."

"True," said Penwarden, "and little small fellers
like we must gie them above the credit o't.  Theer
be doin's in high parts as we cannot make head or
tail of.  Squire's cousin comes here, a right-down
villain, a-deceivin' high and low from Sir Bevil
himself down to small fry like 'ee."

"That no man can deny," said Tonkin.

"And yet," pursued Penwarden, enjoying his
unaccustomed *rôle* as oracle,—"and yet, if he hadn'
a-come, theer'd 'a been no Frenchy poking his nose
in Polkerran, and no call for Maister Dick to shift a
stone that has held to the same moorings maybe since
the beginnin' o' the world.  Ay, the Almighty do say
a word sometimes to us miserable worms."

The old man's solemnity caused a hush to fall on the
assembly.  For some moments no one spoke.  The
room filled with clouds of smoke.  Then Penwarden
took his pipe from his mouth, and, in a different
tone, said: "It minds me o' Lord Admiral Rodney."

"What do mind 'ee of him, Maister?" asked
Simon Mail, whose arm was in a sling.

"Why, a high person speakin' to a low.  Did 'ee
never hear how the Lord Admiral once upon a time
spoke special to me?"

"Never in life, Maister," said Mail.  "Spet out
the story for the good of us all."

"Well, 'twas on Plymouth Hoe.  Theer was I,
takin' a spell ashore, and cruisin' about: ah! I had
a good figurehead in them gay young days.  Daze
me if Lord Admiral Rodney didn' run athwart my
course, convoying two spankin' fine craft in the shape
of females.  The sight took the wind out o' my
sails, I assure 'ee, and I fell becalmed full in the
fairway, as ye med say.  'Get out o' my way, you
cross-eyed son of a sea-cook,' says the Lord Admiral,
and the two handsome females laughed like waves
dancin' in the sun.  'Twas a wonderful honour for
a great man-o'-war like Lord Admiral Rodney to
speak to a humble and lowly feller like me."

"'Twas a gashly scornful name to call 'ee, I
b'lieve," said Pennycomequick, the village wet-blanket.

"Ah! but you should ha' heerd what he called
the swabbers aboard," replied Penwarden, lighting
another pipe.

.. vspace:: 2

The result of the assayer's tests was more satisfactory
than the most sanguine had dared to anticipate.
The ore was particularly rich in metal, and the
lode appeared to extend through the lower part of
the Beal seaward.  A careful examination of the
ground explained the reason why the discovery had
not been made earlier.  Between the old mine and
the new lode extended several yards of granite, by
what is known in geology as a "fault."

When the assayer declared that in all probability
the tin-bearing stratum stretched for thousands of
yards under the sea, the question to be debated
was whether the Squire should sell the land, or
attempt to work it himself.  There was little doubt
as to what his decision would be.  His long-vanished
ideas of restoring the fortunes of his
family returned with double force, and it scarcely
needed the persuasiveness of Mr. Carlyon and Dick
to fix his determination.  The ground having been
thoroughly surveyed, his new lawyer in Truro had
no difficulty in negotiating a loan which furnished
him with enough capital to start working.  Plant
was soon on the spot, miners were engaged, and
within a few months the yield was sufficient to pay
the interest on the loan, a portion of the capital sum,
and a contribution towards the increased expenditure
at the Towers.  Now that the tide had turned towards
prosperity, the Squire put in hand the repairs long
needed there, and Mrs. Trevanion decided to retain
Cook and Maidy Susan in her employment.

The question of Dick's future came up.  Mr. Carlyon
urged that he should continue his studies
and go to Oxford; but Dick's inclination was for a
more strenuously active life.  He worked for a time
as a common miner in order to learn the details of
the trade, visited other mines to widen his
knowledge, and ultimately became his father's manager,
in which capacity he showed a genius for organisation
and the control of men.

Sam Pollex, basking in the continual sunshine of
Maidy Susan's smile, became the Squire's gardener,
and was very proud of the results of his handiwork.
He grew a few inches, and by the time he was twenty
stood a little higher than Susan's shoulder.  Convinced
that he would grow no more, he asked her to marry
him, pointing out that though she was older in years,
he was older in knowledge: that she looked younger
than she was, and he older.  They made a match of
it, Susan's wedding dress being fashioned out of a
blue silk recovered from the cave.

A month or two after the day of the great
discovery, the Collector at Plymouth paid a visit to
Polkerran, and decided that Penwarden was too old
for his post.  This gave deep offence to the old
man.  "Too old, be I?" said he; "we'll see about
that."  The Squire offered him the post of overseer
at his new mine, which he accepted.  His indignation
at the slight put upon him in the King's name
scarcely diminished with the lapse of time, and a
village tradition asserts that, during the next ten
years, the smuggler who caused the most trouble and
annoyance to the revenue officers was Joe Penwarden,
once exciseman.  But no one who knew the old
man's strong sense of duty, and had heard him speak
of his service under Admiral Rodney, could ever
believe that the actions of his later life so far belied
his principles.

About six months after John Trevanion's disappearance,
a billposter came from Truro and posted
notices on the fences of the desolate grounds of the
Dower House, and Petherick, as village crier, rang
his bell and proclaimed the approaching sale of "all
that messuage and tenement," et cetera.  It was
already known, through the resumption of business
relations between Tonkin and Delarousse, that the
latter had thrown Trevanion into prison, and lodged
a claim against him for the restitution of large sums
of money which he had obtained by a systematic
course of fraud.  When the day of the sale came, it
was remarked that none of the neighbouring land-owners
put in an appearance except Squire Trevanion.
Sir Bevil Portharvan had, in fact, personally persuaded
his friends to absent themselves, and leave the bidding
to the Squire.  As is generally the case with forced
sales, the bids were low, and the estate was knocked
down to Mr. Trevanion of the Towers, at a ridiculously
small figure.  The proceeds of the sale did not
suffice to clear John Trevanion, who remained in
prison until his death of fever a year later.  The
Squire told Mr. Carlyon that as soon as Dick set
about seeking a wife, he would rebuild the Dower
House.  But Dick did not marry until after
his father's death, sixteen years later, and the
site of the Dower House was then a picturesque ruin.

Doubledick was never again seen in Polkerran,
nor was anything directly heard of him by his
former associates.  The inn lost all its customers,
who transferred their favours to the Three Jolly
Mariners.  In three months, Mrs. Doubledick was
on the brink of ruin, and one day she mounted the
carrier's cart, with a few bundles, and departed, no
one knew whither.

Some few years afterwards, the landlord of a low
public-house in the precinct of Whitefriars,
London—a haunt of thieves, coiners, and other bad
characters—was discovered in an alley behind the house,
dead, with a bullet-wound in his temple.  He went
by the name of Brown, and was believed to be a
West-countryman.  It was rumoured that his murderer
was one of a gang whom he had betrayed to the police.
No one came forward to claim relationship with him,
and he was buried by the parish.

For many years rare visitors to the village wondered
at a dilapidated building that stood near the jetty, its
windows broken, its door blistered by the sun, the
fragment of a signboard creaking on a rusty pole
whenever the wind blew in from the sea—a mournful
symbol of neglect and decay.  If any stranger was
curious enough to inquire into the history of this
unpicturesque ruin, he would always find a small boy
ready to conduct him to the house of one of the
Tonkins, who related, with the exactitude of personal
knowledge, the lamentable story of Doubledick the
informer.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center small

   BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.

.. vspace:: 6

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large

   STORIES BY HERBERT STRANG

.. class:: center medium

   UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

.. vspace:: 2

"The best of living writers for boys."—*Manchester
Guardian*.

"The majority of writers of boys' books are content to
provide their young friends with mere reading.  Herbert
Strang offers them literature."—*Glasgow Herald*.

.. vspace:: 2

HUMPHREY BOLD: His Chances and Mischances
by Land and Sea.  A Story of the Time of Benbow

"Mr. Strang's work is astonishingly vivid and alive, and he
imparts his varied and wide knowledge with the easy mastery
of an artist."—*Publishers' Circular*.

.. vspace:: 2

ROB THE RANGER: a Story of the Fight for Canada.

"A stirring story of the Fight for Canada, bringing into
relief the romantic side of the great struggle, and showing the
author's keen observation, rapid and lucid narration, and
clever construction at their best."—*Educational Times*.

.. vspace:: 2

ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES: a Story of the Fight for India.

"An absorbing story ... The narrative not only thrills,
but also weaves skilfully out of fact and fiction a clear
impression of our fierce struggle for India."—*Athenæum*.

.. vspace:: 2

PALM TREE ISLAND: a Story of the South Seas.

"For desperate daring and resourceful ingenuity Harry
Brent and Billy Bobbin will be hard to beat, and many will
be the boy who finds this story of their trip to the South Seas
full of fascination and interest."—*Army and Navy Gazette*.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

PRICE SIX SHILLINGS EACH

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::
