oo," he confided, "I'd be sorry
if anything happened to the chap an' we got a stranger in his place."

"What's the matter with 'ee, Rat-it-all?" asked Nicky-Nan
sympathetically. "By the way you've been behavin' all up the hill--"

"You noticed it?"

"_Noticed_ it!"

"Rat it all!--I mean, I was hopin' you wouldn't. I begin to see as it
will take more practice than I allowed." He cast a glance back at
the ridge as he seated himself on the turf. "Either of you got a
pinch o' baccy?"

"Then you _are_n't afflicted in any way?" exclaimed Nicky-Nan with
relief. "But what was the matter with 'ee, just now, that you kept
behavin' so comical?"

"Got such a thing as a match? . . . Well, I didn' believe it from the
first. You must make allowance," said he as he puffed, "that a
constable has communications in these times, of a certain nature,
calculated to get on his Nerves. For my part, I hate all this
mistrustfulness that's goin'. 'Confidence'--that's my motto--
'as betwix' man an' man.'"

[1] A close shave.

CHAPTER XX.

MISS OLIVER PROFFERS ASSISTANCE.

Although this narrative has faintly attempted to trace it here and
there in operation, no one can keep tally with rumour in Polpier, or
render any convincing account of its secret ways. It were far easier
to hunt thistledown.

The Penhaligon family were packing, preparing for the great move into
Aun' Bunney's derelict cottage. 'Bert and 'Beida had been given to
understand--had made sure in fact--that the move would be made, at
earliest, in the week before Michaelmas Day. For some reason or
other Mrs Penhaligon had changed her mind, and was hurrying things
forward almost feverishly. 'Beida--who for a year or so had been
taken more and more into her mother's confidence--suddenly found
herself up against a dead wall of mystery and obstinacy. The growing
girl was puzzled--driven to consult 'Bert about it; and a Polpier
woman is driven far before she seeks advice from husband or brother.

She might have spared herself the humiliation, too. For 'Bert, when
she cornered him, gave no help at all. Yet he was positive enough.
[It takes some experience to discover what painted laths men are.]

"Some woman's rot!" decided 'Bert with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Father bein' away, she's worryin', an' wants to get it over.
She don't consult me, so I've no call to tell her to take things
cooler." The trumpet, after thus uttering no uncertain sound, tailed