s companion's attention to the
figure still bending over the log pile, and made several significant
gestures. The brutish face of the pusher lighted with an ugly leer,
expressive of understanding, and he began to move cautiously towards
the man who had that day displaced him from the timber gang. As he had
left his light on the car, there was nothing to warn Peveril of his
approach until he was close at hand and about to deliver a cowardly
blow.

At that instant the mysterious premonition that always gives warning
of human presence caused the young man to turn his head. Although he
was too late to avoid the impending blow, it was deflected by his
movement, and instead of stunning him it merely caused him to stagger
and drop his lamp. He also partially warded off a closely following
second blow, and then his own terrible fist was planted with crashing
force full on his assailant's jaw.

[Illustration: THE CAR-PUSHERS MADE A FURIOUS ATTACK ON PEVERIL]

The man uttered a scream of agony, covered his face with his hands,
and started to run. At this moment the other two car-pushers appeared
on the scene, and with fierce cries began a furious attack upon the
young man whom they had sworn either to kill or drive from the mine.
At this time the battleground was only dimly illumined by the
flickering light of the miner who was thus far sole spectator of the
contest. Peveril fought in dogged silence, but his assailants uttered
shrill cries in an unknown tongue. Attracted by these, other lights
began to appear from both directions, and all at once Mark Trefethen's
gruff tones were heard demanding to know what was going on.

At this sound Peveril uttered a joyful shout, while at the same moment
the light in Mike Connell's hat was extinguished.

Recognizing his protege's voice, the timber boss sprang to his side,
and within another minute the two car-pushers would have been
annihilated had not the coming of a second car given them a
reinforcement of three more half-naked savages.

Thus beset and outnumbered by more than two to one, Trefethen thought
it no shame to call for aid, and, uplifting his mighty voice, he sent
rolling and echoing through the rock-bound galleries the rallying cry
of the Cornishmen:

"One and all for Cornwall! One and all!"

CHAPTER VII

CORNWALL TO THE RESCUE

"One and all!" The rallying-cry of the most clannish county in
England. The one in which, from Land's End to Plymouth Sound, every