and intemperance are very strong ... all the same,
we're fighting 'em, fighting 'em!"

This was the more remarkable in that Mr. Lasher lived upon the very edge
of Roche St. Mary Moor, a stretch of moor and sand. Roche St. Mary Moor,
that runs to the sea, contains the ruins of St. Arthe Church (buried
until lately in the sand, but recently excavated through the kind
generosity of Sir John Porthcullis, of Borhaze, and shown to visitors,
6d. a head, Wednesday and Saturday afternoons free), and in one of the
most romantic, mist-laden, moon-silvered, tempest-driven spots in the
whole of Great Britain.

The road that ran from Clinton St. Mary to Borhaze across the moor was
certainly a wild, rambling, beautiful affair, and when the sea-mists
swept across it and the wind carried the cry of the Bell of Trezent Rock
in and out above and below, you had a strange and moving experience. Mr.
Lasher was certainly compelled to ride on his bicycle from Clinton St.
Mary to Borhaze and back again, and never thought it either strange or
moving. "Only ten at the Bible meeting to-night. Borhaze wants waking
up. We'll see what open-air services can do." What the moor thought
about Mr. Lasher it is impossible to know!

Hugh Seymour thought about the moor continually, but he was afraid to
mention his ideas of it in public. There was a legend in the village
that several hundred years ago some pirates, driven by storm into
Borhaze, found their way on to the moor and, caught by the mist,
perished there; they are to be seen, says the village, in powdered wigs,
red coats, gold lace, and swords, haunting the sand-dunes. God help the
poor soul who may fall into their hands! This was a very pleasant story,
and Hugh Seymour's thoughts often crept around and about it. He would
like to find a pirate, to bring him to the vicarage, and present him to
Mr. Lasher. He knew that Mrs. Lasher would say, "Fancy, a pirate. Well!
now, fancy! Well, here's a pirate!" And that Mr. Lasher would say, "It's
a pity, Hugh, that you don't choose your company more carefully. Look at
the man's nose!"

Hugh, although he was only eleven, knew this. Hugh did on one occasion
mention the pirates. "Dreaming again, Hugh! Pity they fill your head
with such nonsense! If they read their Bibles more!"

Nevertheless, Hugh continued his dreaming. He dreamt of the moor, of
the pirates, of the cobbled street in Borhaze, of the cry of the Trezent
Bell, of the deep lanes and the smell of