he frequent custom of farmers to ride their horses or drive
their cattle across it when the tide was low, but often men and beasts
were lost in the quicksands formed in the rising tide. After one sad
accident of this sort, the Rev. Mr. Lovebone, the vicar of Wadebridge,
determined that a bridge should be built, and after great pains and
struggling it was finished with seventeen arches of stone. But in
spite of their great labour, disappointment and defeat followed in
their track, for pier after pier was lost in the sands. A "fair
structure" was to be seen in the evening, but in the morning nothing
was left. Mr. Lovebone was ready to give up in despair; but one night
he dreamed that an angel came with a flock of sheep, that he sheared
them, let the wool fall in to the water, and speedily built the bridge
on the wool. Then the holy man awoke with a new idea. He appealed to
the farmers, who sent him all the wool they had, which was put into
sacks; these were placed thickly on the sands, and on these piers were
built. Thus the wisdom of the angel of the dream was manifest, for the
bridge remains to this day.

The harbour is not very wide or large at Wadebridge, and vessels of
large dimensions can only come in when the tide is high.

The first thing I did on my arrival was to go to a small shop where
seafaring apparel was sold. The owner looked at me curiously, as I
asked for a general rig out, but showed me what I wanted nevertheless.
I was not long in making a bargain, and then asked for permission to
change my attire.

"Ain't bin doin' nothin' wrong, I hope?" he said.

"Not to my knowledge," I replied.

"Cause you do'ant look much like a chap as is used to wearin' a
sailor's clothes," he said.

"No," I answered. "What do I look like, then?"

He looked at my hands, then at my shooting suit, and again at my face,
and replied slowly:

"Why, you do look look like a passen's son as hev got into trouble and
be now runnin' away; ed'n that about right, now?"

"Not exactly," I said, "but I'm sure you'll allow me to change my
clothes, won't you?"

He gave an unwilling consent at length, and I confess that, when I had
put on a rough suit of seaman's clothes, I hardly knew myself. I went
across the bridge to the little village of Egloshayle, and walked
towards Slades Bridge, which lay in the direction of Bodmin.

"Now," I said to myself, "you are no longer Roger Trewinion, but a
common fisherman, who is desiro