he had heard, and she was to sail that very week. He would go and offer
himself as a seaman, and if Webber made any bones about it, he would
engage to put a part of his legacy into the adventure. In fact, he was
ready for anything that would take him out of Porthlooe. To live there
and run the risk of meeting Ruby on the other man's arm was more than
flesh and blood could stand. So he went along with his hands deep in
his pockets, his eyes fastened straight ahead, his heart smoking, and
the sweat stinging his eyelids. And as he went he cursed the day of his
birth.

From Porthlooe to Troy Ferry is a good six miles by the cliffs, and when
he had accomplished about half the distance, he was hailed by name.

Between the path at this point and the cliff's edge lay a small patch
cleared for potatoes, and here an oldish man was leaning on his shovel
and looking up at Zeb.

"Good-mornin', my son!"

"Mornin', hollibubber!"

The old man had once worked inland at St. Teath slate-quarries, and made
his living as a "hollibubber," or one who carts away the refuse slates.
On returning to his native parish he had brought back and retained the
name of his profession, the parish register alone preserving his true
name of Matthew Spry. He was a fervent Methodist--a local preacher, in
fact--and was held in some admiration by "the people" for his lustiness
in prayer-meeting. A certain intensity in his large grey eyes gave
character to a face that was otherwise quite insignificant. You could
see he was a good man.

"Did 'ee see that dainty frigate go cruisin' by, two hour agone?"

"No."

"Then ye missed a sweet pretty sight. Thirty guns, I do b'lieve, an'
all sail set. I cou'd a'most count her guns, she stood so close."

"Hey?"

"She tacked just here an' went round close under Bradden Point; so she's
for Troy, that's certain. Be you bound that way, too?"

"Iss, I'll see her, if she's there."

"Best not go too close, my son; for I know the looks o' those customers.
By all accounts you'm a man of too much substance to risk yourself near
a press-gang."

Young Zeb gazed over the old man's head at the horizon line, and
answered, as if reading the sentence there, "I might fare worse,
hollibubber."

The hollibubber seemed, for a second, about to speak; for, of course, he
knew Zeb's trouble. But after a while he took his shovel out of the
ground slowly.

"Ay, ye might," he said; "pray the Lord ye don't."

Zeb went