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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 lady made noise enough when she thought you’d been made away with: and afterwards, when she went upstairs and, taking a glance out of window, spied a long black coffin laid out under the lilac bushes, I’m told you could hear her a mile away. But she’ve been weakening this half-hour: her nature couldn’t keep it up: whereas the longer we keep that Frenchman, the louder he seems to bellow.”

“Heaven defend us, Calvin!”–the Parson’s eyes fairly rolled in his head–“are you gone clean crazed? Frenchman! What Frenchman?”

“The same that frightened Mrs. Polwhele, Sir, upon the coach. We caught him drawing maps of the river, and very nigh tucked him in Sam Trewhella’s sean: and now he’s in your tool-shed right and tight, and here’s the key, Sir, making so bold, that you gave me this morning. But I didn’t like to take him into the house, with your good lady tumbling out of one fit into another. Hark to ‘en, now! Would you ever believe one man could make such a noise?”

“Fits! My poor, dear, tender Mary having fits!” The Parson broke away for the house and dashed upstairs three steps at a time: and when she caught sight of him, Mrs. Polwhele let out a louder squeal than ever. But the next moment she was hanging round his neck, and laughing and sobbing by turns. And how long they’d have clung to one another there’s no knowing, if it hadn’t been for the language pouring from the tool-shed.

“My dear,” said the Parson, holding himself up and listening. “I don’t think that can possibly be a Frenchman. He’s too fluent.”

Mrs. Polwhele listened too, but after a while she was forced to cover her face with both hands. “Oh, Richard, I’ve often heard ‘en described as gay, but–but they can’t surely be so gay as all that!”

The Parson eased her into an armchair and went downstairs to the courtyard, and there, as you may suppose, he found the parish gathered.

“Stand back all of you,” he ordered. “I’ve a notion that some mistake has been committed: but you had best hold yourselves ready in case the prisoner tries to escape.”

“But Parson dear, you’re never going to unlock that door!” cried my grandfather.

“If you’ll stand by me, Calvin,” says the Parson, plucky as ginger, and up he steps to the very door, all the parish holding its breath.

He tapped once–no answer: twice–and no more answer than before. There was a small trap open in the roof and through this the language kept pouring with never a stop, only now and then a roar like a bull’s. But at the third knock it died down to a sort of rumbling, and presently came a shout, “Who’s there?”

“A clergyman and justice of the peace,” answers the Parson.

“I’ll have your skin for this!”

“But you’ll excuse me–“

“I’ll have your skin for this, and your blood in a bottle! I’m a British officer and a gentleman, and I’ll have you stuffed and put in a glass case, as sure as my name’s Bligh!”

“Bligh?” says the Parson, opening the door. “Any relation to the Blighs of St. Tudy? Oh, no it can’t be!” he stammered, taken all aback to see the man stark naked on the threshold. “Why–why, you’re the gentleman that called this morning!” he went on, the light breaking in upon him: “excuse me, I recognise you by–by the slight scar on your face.”

Well, Sir, there was nothing for Bligh to do–the whole parish staring at him–but to slip back into the shed and put on the clothes my grandfather handed in at the door: and while he was dressing the whole truth came out. I won’t say that he took the Parson’s explanations in a nice spirit: for he vowed to have the law on everyone concerned. But that night he walked back to Falmouth and took the London coach. As for Helford River, ’twasn’t charted that year nor for a score of years after. And now you know how this creek came by its name; and I’ll say again, as I began, that a bad temper is an affliction, whoever owns it.