oreman, Jim Bunt, with his
two-hundred-fathom net: and along the shore came running the rest of
the lads to see the fun.

"Heva, heva!" yelled Sam Trewhella, waving his hat with the black
streamers.

The sean-boat swooped up to Bligh with a rush, and then, just as he
faced upon it with his fists up, to die fighting, it swerved off on a
curve round him, and Jim Bunt began shooting the sean hand over hand
like lightning. Then the poor man understood, and having no mind to
be rolled up and afterwards tucked in a sean-net, he let out an oath,
ducked his head, and broke for the shore like a bull. But 'twas no
manner of use. As soon as he touched land a dozen jumped for him and
pulled him down. They handled him as gentle as they could, for he
fought with fists, legs, and teeth, and his language was awful: but
my grandfather in his foresight had brought along a couple of
wainropes, and within ten minutes they had my gentleman trussed,
heaved him into the boat, covered him over, and were rowing him off
and down the creek to land him at Helford Quay.

By this 'twas past noon; and at one o'clock, or a little before,
Parson Polwhele come striding along home from Little Dinnis. He had
tied a handkerchief about his head to keep off the sun; his hands and
knees were coated with earth; and he sweated like a furze-bush in a
mist, for the footpath led through cornfields and the heat was
something terrible. Moreover, he had just called the funeral to
mind; and this and the damage he'd left at Little Dinnis fairly
hurried him into a fever.

But worse was in store. As he drew near the Parsonage, he spied a
man running towards him: and behind the man the most dreadful noises
were sounding from the house. The Parson came to a halt and swayed
where he stood.

"Oh, Calvin! Calvin!" he cried--for the man running was my
grandfather--"don't try to break it gently, but let me know the
worst!"

"Oh, blessed day! Oh, fearful and yet blessed day!" cries my
grandfather, almost catching him in both arms. "So you're not dead!
So you're not dead, the Lord be praised, but only hurt!"

"Hurt?" says the Parson. "Not a bit of it--or only in my feelings.
Oh, 'tis the handkerchief you're looking at? I put that up against
sunstroke. But whatever do these dreadful sounds mean? Tell me the
worst, Calvin, I implore you!"

"Oh, as for that," says my grandfather cheerfully, "the Frenchman's
the worst by a long way--not but what your good