econd day Scorrier too
found himself translated, and had to sit, as he expressed it ruefully,
"among the big-wigs."

During the voyage only one incident impressed itself on Scorrier's
memory, and that for a disconcerting reason. In the forecastle were the
usual complement of emigrants. One evening, leaning across the rail to
watch them, he felt a touch on his arm; and, looking round, saw Pippin's
face and beard quivering in the lamplight. "Poor people!" he said. The
idea flashed on Scorrier that he was like some fine wire sound-recording
instrument.

'Suppose he were to snap!' he thought. Impelled to justify this fancy,
he blurted out: "You're a nervous chap. The way you look at those poor
devils!"

Pippin hustled him along the deck. "Come, come, you took me off my
guard," he murmured, with a sly, gentle smile, "that's not fair."

He found it a continual source of wonder that Pippin, at his age, should
cut himself adrift from the associations and security of London life to
begin a new career in a new country with dubious prospect of success.
'I always heard he was doing well all round,' he thought; 'thinks he'll
better himself, perhaps. He's a true Cornishman.'

The morning of arrival at the mines was grey and cheerless; a cloud of
smoke, beaten down by drizzle, clung above the forest; the wooden houses
straggled dismally in the unkempt semblance of a street, against a
background of endless, silent woods. An air of blank discouragement
brooded over everything; cranes jutted idly over empty trucks; the long
jetty oozed black slime; miners with listless faces stood in the rain;
dogs fought under their very legs. On the way to the hotel they met no
one busy or serene except a Chinee who was polishing a dish-cover.

The late superintendent, a cowed man, regaled them at lunch with his
forebodings; his attitude toward the situation was like the food, which
was greasy and uninspiring. Alone together once more, the two newcomers
eyed each other sadly.

"Oh dear!" sighed Pippin. "We must change all this, Scorrier; it will
never do to go back beaten. I shall not go back beaten; you will have
to carry me on my shield;" and slyly: "Too heavy, eh? Poor fellow!" Then
for a long time he was silent, moving his lips as if adding up the cost.
Suddenly he sighed, and grasping Scorrier's arm, said: "Dull, aren't I?
What will you do? Put me in your report, 'New Superintendent--sad, dull
dog--not a word to throw at a cat!'" And as if