'ards an' forrards like a lost dog in a
fair, movin' his chattels. There's a hole in the roof of that new
cottage of his that a man may put his Sunday hat dro'; and as for his
old Woman, she'll do nought but sit 'pon the lime-ash floor wi' her
tout-serve over her head, an' call en ivery name but what he was
chris'ened."

"Nothin' but neck-an'-crop would do for Tresidder, I'm told," said Old
Zeb. "'I've a-sarved 'ee faithful,' said Jim, 'an' now you turns me out
wi' a week's warnin'.' 'You've a-crossed my will,' says Tresidder, 'an'
I've engaged a more pushin' hind in your place.' 'Tis a new fashion o'
speech wi' Tresidder nowadays."

"Ay, modern words be drivin' out the old forms. But 'twas only to get
Jim's cottage for that strong-will'd supplantin' furriner because Ruby
said 'twas low manners for bride an' groom to go to church from the same
house. So no sooner was the Lewarnes out than he was in, like shufflin'
cards, wi' his marriage garment an' his brush an' comb in a hand-bag.
Tresidder sent down a mattress for en, an' he slept there last night."

"Eh, but that's a trifle for a campaigner."

"Let this be a warnin' to 'ee, my son niver to save no more lives from
drownin'."

"I won't," promised Young Zeb.

"We've found 'ee a great missment," Elias observed to him, after a
pause. "The Psa'ms, these three Sundays, bain't what they was for lack
o' your enlivenin' flute--I can't say they be. An' to hear your very
own name called forth in the banns wi' Ruby's, an' you wi'out part nor
lot therein--"

"Elias, you mean it well, no doubt; but I'd take it kindly if you
sheered off."

"'Twas a wisht Psa'm, too," went on Elias, "las' Sunday mornin'; an' I
cudn' help my thoughts dwellin' 'pon the dismals as I blowed, nor
countin' how that by this time to-morrow--"

But Young Zeb had caught up his cap and rushed from the cottage.

He took, not the highway to Porthlooe, but a footpath that slanted up
the western slope of the coombe, over the brow of the hill, and led in
time to the coast and a broader path above the cliffs. The air was
warm, and he climbed in such hurry that the sweat soon began to drop
from his forehead. By the time he reached the cliffs he was forced to
pull a handkerchief out and mop himself; but without a pause, he took
the turning westward towards Troy harbour, and tramped along sturdily.
For his mind was made up.

Ship's-chandler Webber, of Troy, was fitting out a brand-new privateer,