nce that it must be a justice of the peace, or some
great rider of the Revenue, on his way to see Dr. Upandown, or at the
least a high constable concerned with some great sheep-stealing. Not
that any such crime was known in the village itself of Flamborough,
which confined its operations to the sea; but in the outer world of
land that malady was rife just now, and a Flamborough man, too fond of
mutton, had farmed some sheep on the downs, and lost them, which was
considered a judgment on him for willfully quitting ancestral ways.

But instead of turning at the corner where the rector was trying to grow
some trees, the stranger kept on along the rugged highway, and between
the straggling cottages, so that the women rinsed their arms, and turned
round to take a good look at him, over the brambles and furze, and the
wall of chalky flint and rubble.

"This is just what I wanted," thought Geoffrey Mordacks: "skill makes
luck, and I am always lucky. Now, first of all, to recruit the inner
man."

At this time Mrs. Theophila Precious, generally called "Tapsy," the
widow of a man who had been lost at sea, kept the "Cod with a Hook in
his Gills," the only hostelry in Flamborough village, although there
was another toward the Landing. The cod had been painted from life--or
death--by a clever old fisherman who understood him, and he looked so
firm, and stiff, and hard, that a healthy man, with purse enough to tire
of butcher's-meat, might grow in appetite by gazing. Mr. Mordacks pulled
up, and fixed steadfast eyes upon this noble fish, the while a score
of sharp eyes from the green and white meadow were fixed steadfastly on
him.

"How he shines with salt-water! How firm he looks, and his gills as
bright as a rose in June! I have never yet tasted a cod at first hand.
It is early in the day, but the air is hungry. My expenses are paid, and
I mean to live well, for a strong mind will be required. I will have a
cut out of that fish, to begin with."

Inditing of this, and of matters even better, the rider turned into the
yard of the inn, where an old boat (as usual) stood for a horse-trough,
and sea-tubs served as buckets. Strong sunshine glared upon the
oversaling tiles, and white buckled walls, and cracky lintels;
but nothing showed life, except an old yellow cat, and a pair of
house-martins, who had scarcely time to breathe, such a number of little
heads flipped out with a white flap under the beak of each, demanding
momentous v