by a night attack, and then as
solemnly give warning on what night he meant to deliver it."

Mr. Pennefather took off his spectacles and polished them with his
silk handkerchief. "But without that precaution he would find nobody
to attack."

"I tell you, it's absurd! And yet," the Riding Officer went on
irritably, "if one could count on its being absurd, I wouldn't mind.
But there's just a chance that, with all this foolery, Hymen and Pond
are covering up a little game. Why have they chosen Talland Cove,
now?"

"I suppose because, for a night attack on Looe, there's no better
spot."

"Nor for running a cargo. I tell you, I shall keep the Dragoons on
the alert."

"You don't suggest that you suspect--"

"Suspect? I suspect everybody. It's the rule of the service; and by
following it I've reached the position I hold to-day."

"True." The Collector readjusted his spectacles and returned to his
figures. There may have been just a hint of condolence in his
accent, for the Riding Officer looked up sharply.

"If you lived in the north, Pennefather, do you know what we should
say about you? We should say that you were no very gleg in the
uptake."

"I once," answered the Collector, gently, without lifting his head
from the ledger, "began to read Burns, but had to give him up on
account of the dialect."

Meanwhile, all unaware of these dark suspicions, the Major and his
Gallants were perfecting their preparations for the great surprise.

And what preparations! In the heat of them we had almost forgotten
the Millennium itself!

For weeks the band had been practising a selection of tunes
appropriate (1) to invasions in general and (2) to this particular
invasion. There was "Britons, Strike Home!" for instance, and
"The Padstow Hobby-horse," and "The Rout it is out for the Blues,"
slightly amended for the occasion:

"As I was a-walking on Downderry sands,
Some dainty fine sport for to view,
The maidens were wailing and wringing their hands--
Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes,
For the Looes,
Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes."

The very urchins whistled and sang it about the streets. On the
other hand, the Major's chivalrous proposal to hymn _The George of
Looe_ came to nothing, since Captain Pond could supply him with
neither the words nor the air.

"Notwithstanding all my researches," he wrote, "the utmost I can
discover is the following stanza w