Chapter THE TENTH: The Fire Bell at the Towers (8)

"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.

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.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH

Peace and Goodwill

"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 _habitues_.

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 _role_ 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.

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.

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

* * * * * * * *

STORIES BY HERBERT STRANG

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

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HUMPHREY BOLD: His Chances and Mischances by Land and Sea. A Story of the Time of Benbow

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ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES: a Story of the Fight for India.

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PALM TREE ISLAND: a Story of the South Seas.

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