r if you wanted to make heavy-cake in a
hurry, to celebrate our movin'-in. 'Bert agreed with me when I told
him," she continued, still lifting her voice, "and unbeknown to you
we cut an' fetched in a furze-bush, there bein' nothin' to give such
a savour to bread, cake, or pie. So if you're willin', Mother, we'll
fire it up while Mr Nanjivell tells his business."

"What's _that?_" asked Mrs Penhaligon, sitting erect, as her ears
caught the sound of a howl, muffled but prolonged.

'Beida set her back firmly against the oven. "Bread takes longer
than cakes," she announced, making her voice carry. "Cakes is
soonest over. We might try the old place first with a heavy cake, if
Mr Nanjivell don't mind waitin' for a chat, an' will excuse the
flavour whatever it turns out."

"We're bewitched!" cried Mrs Penhaligon starting to her feet as the
wailing was renewed, with a faint tunding on the iron door.

'Beida flung it open. "Which I hope it has been a lesson to you,"
she began, thrusting herself quickly in front of the aperture, and
heading off the culprit before he could clamber out and run to his
mother's lap. "No, you don't! The first thing _you_ have to do, to
show you're sorry, is to creep back all the way you can go, an' fetch
forth what you can find at the very end."

"You won't shut the door on me again?" pleaded 'Biades.

"That depends on how slippy you look. I make no promises," answered
'Beida sternly. "'Twas you that first stole Mr Nanjivell's money,
and if you ben't doin' it again, well I can only say as appearances
be against him--eh, 'Bert?"

"Fetch it out, you varmint!" 'Bert commanded.

"But I don't understand a word of this!" protested the mother.
"My precious worm! What for be you two commandin' him to wriggle up
an' down an oven on his tender little belly like a Satan in Genesis,
when all the time I thought he'd taken hisself off like a good boy,
to run along an' mess his clothes 'pon the Quay. . . . Come 'ee
forth, my cherub, an' tell your mother what they've a-been doin' to
'ee? . . . Eh? Why, what's that you've a-got clinched in your hand?"

"Sufferin's!" sobbed 'Biades, still shaken by an after-gust of
fright.

"_What?_"

"Sufferin's!" echoed 'Beida excitedly. "Real coined an' golden
sufferin's! Unclinch your hand, 'Biades, an' show the company!"

As the child opened his palm, Mrs Penhaligon fell back, and put out a
hand against the kitchen table for support.

"The good Lord i