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“But what’s the meaning of this?” cried out Mrs. Polwhele, pointing to the tablecloth that Bligh had pulled all awry in his temper. “And the window open too!”

“And–hallo!” says my grandfather, staring across the patch of turf outside. “Surely here’s signs of a violent struggle. Human, by the look of it,” says he, picking up a thigh-bone and holding it out towards Mrs. Polwhele.

She began to shake like a leaf. “Oh, Calvin!” she gasps out. “Oh, Calvin, not in this short time–it couldn’t be!”

“Charred, too,” says my grandfather, inspecting it: and with that they turned at a cry from Martha the cook, that was down on hands and knees upon the carpet.

“Ashes! See here, mistress–ashes all over your best carpet!”

The two women stared at the fireplace: but, of course, that told them nothing, being empty, as usual at the time of year, with only a few shavings stuck about it by way of ornament. Martha, the first to pick up her wits, dashed out into the front hall.

“Gone without his hat, too!” she fairly screamed, running her eye along the row of pegs.

Mrs. Polwhele clasped her hands. “In the midst of life we are in death,” said Arch’laus Spry: “that’s my opinion if you ask it.”

“Gone! Gone without his hat, like the snuff of a candle!” Mrs. Polwhele dropped into a chair and rocked herself and moaned.

My grandfather banged his fist on the table. He never could abide the sight of a woman in trouble.

“Missus,” says he, “if the Parson’s anywhere alive, we’ll find ‘en: and if that Frenchman be Old Nick himself, he shall rue the day he ever set foot in Manaccan parish! Come’st along, Arch’laus–“

He took Spry by the arm and marched him out and down the garden path. There, by the gate, what should his eyes light upon but his own stolen tools! But by this time all power of astonishment was dried up within him. He just raised his eyes aloft, as much as to say, “Let the sky open and rain miracles!” and then and there he saw, coming down the road, the funeral that both he and the Parson had clean forgotten.

The corpse was an old man called ‘Pollas Hockaday; and Sam Trewhella, a fish-curer that had married Hockaday’s eldest daughter, walked next behind the coffin as chief mourner. My grandfather waited by the gate for the procession to come by, and with that Trewhella caught sight of him, and, says he, taking down the handkerchief from his nose:

“Well, you’re a pretty fellow, I must say! What in thunder d’ee mean by not tolling the minute-bell?”

“Tak ‘en back,” answers my grandfather, pointing to the coffin. “Take ‘en back, ‘co!”

“Eh?” says Trewhella. “Answer my question, I tell ‘ee. You’ve hurt my feelings and the feelings of everyone connected with the deceased: and if this weren’t not-azackly the place for it, I’d up and give you a dashed good hiding,” says he.

“Aw, take ‘en back,” my grandfather goes on. “Take ‘en back, my dears, and put ‘en somewhere, cool and temporary! The grave’s not digged, and the Parson’s kidnapped, and the French be upon us, and down by the river ther’s a furrin spy taking soundings at this moment! In the name of King George,” said he, remembering that he was constable, “I command you all except the females to come along and collar ‘en!”

While this was going on, Sir, Bligh had found his boat–which he’d left by the shore–and was pulling up the river to work off his rage. Ne’er a thought had he, as he flounced through the churchyard, of the train of powder he dribbled behind him: but all the way he blew off steam, cursing Parson Polwhele and the whole cloth from Land’s End to Johnny Groats, and glowering at the very gates by the road as though he wanted to kick ’em to relieve his feelings. But when he reached his boat and began rowing, by little and little the exercise tamed him. With his flags and whitewash he’d marked out most of the lines he wanted for soundings: but there were two creeks he hadn’t yet found time to explore–Porthnavas, on the opposite side, and the very creek by which we’re sitting. So, as he came abreast of this one, he determined to have a look at it; and after rowing a hundred yards or so, lay on his oars, lit his pipe, and let his boat drift up with the tide.