he agent was busily engaged in explaining to Charles Tregarthen
some portions of the work, Oliver stepped aside and accosted Joe Tonkin.

"So, friend," he said, with a smile, "it seems that smuggling is not
your only business?"

"No, sur, it ain't," replied Joe, with a grin. "I'm a
jack-of-all-trades--a smelter, as you do see, an' a miner _also_, when
it suits me."

"I'm glad to hear it, my man, for it gives you a chance of coming in
contact with better men than smugglers--although I'm free to confess
that there _is_ some good among them too. I don't forget that your
comrade Jim Cuttance hauled me out of the sea. Where is he?"

"Don't knaw, sur," replied Tonkin, with an angry frown; "he and I don't
pull well together. We've parted now."

Oliver glanced at the man, and as he observed his stern, proud
expression of face, and his huge, powerful frame, he came to the
conclusion that Cuttance had met a man of equal power and force of
character with himself, and was glad to get rid of him.

"But I have not gi'n up smuggling," added the man, with a smile. "It do
pay pretty well, and is more hearty-like than this sort o' thing."

"I'd advise you to fall back on mining," said Oliver. "It is hard work,
I know, but it is honest labour, and as far as I have seen, there does
not appear to be a more free, hearty, and independent race under the sun
than Cornish miners."

Joe Tonkin shook his head and smiled dubiously.

"You do think so, sur, but you haven't tried it. I don't like it. It
don't suit me, it don't. No, no; there's nothin' like a good boat and
the open sea."

"Things are looking a little better at Botallack just now, Joe," said
Oliver, after a pause. "I'd strongly advise you to try it again."

The man remained silent for a few minutes, then he said,--"Well, Mr
Trembath, I don't mind if I do. I'm tired o' this work, and as my time
is up this very day, I'll go over to-morrow and see 'bout it. There's a
man at Newlyn as I've got somethin' to say to; I'll go see him to-night,
and then--"

"Come along, Oliver," shouted Tregarthen at that moment; "it's time to
go."

Oliver bade Tonkin good-afternoon, and, turning hastily away, followed
his friend.

The two proceeded arm in arm up Market-Jew Street, and turning down
towards the shore, walked briskly along in the direction of the
picturesque fishing village of Newlyn, which lies little more than a
mile to the westward of Penzance.

CHAPTER TWENT