ind the
self-willed urchin near the house, perhaps in the cottage of the
Penroses. But when the cottages in the immediate neighbourhood had been
called at, and all the known places of danger round the house examined,
without success, the poor woman became frantic with terror, and roused
the whole neighbourhood. Every place of possible and impossible
concealment was searched, and at last the unhappy mother allowed the
terrible thought to enter her mind that baby had actually accomplished
the unheard-of feat of reaching the dreaded common, and was perhaps at
that moment lying maimed or dead at the bottom of an ancient British
shaft!

Immediately a body of volunteers, consisting of men, women, and
children, and headed by Mrs Maggot, hastened to the common to institute
a thorough search; but they searched in vain, for the holes were
innumerable, and the one in which the baby lay was well concealed by
bushes. Besides, the search was somewhat wildly and hastily made, so
that some spots were over-searched, while others were almost overlooked.

All that day did Mrs Maggot and her friends wander to and fro over the
common, and never, since the days when Phoenician galleys were moored by
St. Michael's Mount, did the eyes of human beings pry so earnestly into
these pits and holes. Had tin been their object, they could not have
been more eager. Evening came, night drew on apace, and at last the
forlorn mother sat down in the centre of a furze bush, and began to
weep. But her friends comforted her. They urged her to go home and
"'ave a dish o' tay" to strengthen her for the renewal of the search by
torch-light. They assured her that the child could easily exist longer
than a day without food, and they reminded her that her baby was an
exceptional baby, a peculiar baby--like its father, uncommonly strong,
and, like its mother, unusually obstinate. The latter sentiment,
however, was _thought_, not expressed.

Under the influence of these assurances and persuasions, Mrs Maggot
went home, and, for a short time, the common was deserted.

Now it chanced, curiously enough, that at this identical point of time,
Maggot senior was enjoying a pipe and a glass of grog in a celebrated
kiddle-e-wink, with his friend Joe Tonkin. This kiddle-e-wink, or low
public-house, was known as Un (or Aunt) Jilly's brandy-shop at Bosarne.
It was a favourite resort of smugglers, and many a gallon of spirit,
free of duty, had been consumed on the p