to get me out," he decided, and went
downstairs cautiously.

CHAPTER III.

HOW THE MEN WENT.

In the passage he found Mrs Penhaligon standing, alone, rigid as a
statue. By her attitude she seemed to be listening. Yet she had
either missed to hear or, hearing, had missed to understand Varco's
call up the stairs. At Nicky-Nan's footstep she turned, with a face
white and set.

"Sam's got to go," she said. Her lips twitched.

"Nonsense, woman! Some person's playin' a trick 'pon the town."

"They start from the bridge at ten-thirty. There's no trick about
it. Go an' see for yourself." She motioned with her hand.

Nicky-Nan limped to the porch and peeked out (as they say at
Polpier). Up the street the women stood clacking the news just as
though it were a week-day and the boats had brought in a famous haul.
Feminine gossip in Polpier is not conducted in groups, as the men
conduct theirs on the Quay. By tradition each housewife takes post
on her own threshold-slate, and knits while she talks with her
neighbours to right and left and across the road; thus a bit of news,
with comment and embellishment zigzags from door to door through the
town like a postal delivery. To-day being Sunday, the women had no
knitting; but it was observable that while Mrs Trebilcock, two doors
away, led the chorus as usual, her hands moved as though plying
imaginary needles: and so did the hands of Sarah Jane Johns over the
way.

Down by the bridge-end two men in uniform sat side by side on the low
parapet, sorting out a small pile of blue papers. They were Mr
Irons, the chief officer of Coastguard at Troy, and a young
custom-house officer--a stranger to Nicky-Nan. The morning sunlight
played on their brass buttons and cap-rims.

Nicky-Nan withdrew his head hastily.

"Where's Sam?" he asked.

"Gone down to Billy Bosistow's to fetch his sea-boots."

"I don't follow 'ee." Nicky-Nan rubbed his unshaven jaw with two
fingers. "Is the world come to its end, then, that Billy Bosistow
keeps open shop on a Sunday mornin'?"

"'Tisn' like that at all. . . . You see, Sam's a far-seein' man, or
I've tried to make him so. I reckon there's no man in Polpier'll
turn out in a kit smellin' stronger of camphor, against the moth.
Twice this week I've had it out an' brushed it, fingerin' (God help
me) the clothes an' prayin' no shell to strike en, here or there.
. . . Well, an' last autumn, bein' up to Plymouth, he bought an ext