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Supper over, he and his guests turned their chairs towards the fireplace. The King took flint and steel and struck a match; lit his pipe, and stared at the shavings; then dropped the light on the floor, ground it out with his heel, and puffed away thoughtfully. The preacher went on talking.

“Render unto Caesar . . . tribute to whom tribute is due. That applies to King George to-day every bit so much as it did to Caesar.”

“Caesar and King George be two different persons,” said Captain John, stopping his pipe with his thumb.

“The principle’s the same.”

“I don’t see it,” said the captain. “I read my Bible, and it says that Caesar ordered the whole world to be taxed. Now that’s sense. Caesar didn’t go niggling away with a duty on silk here and another on brandy there and another on tea and another on East Indy calicoes. Mind you, I’ve got no personal feeling against King George; but it does annoy me to see a man calling hisself King of England and making money in these petty ways.”

“It’s his birthday to-day,” put in Mrs. Geen; “though I didn’t remember it till I saw the flag on Ardevora church-tower this morning.”

“Is it? Then we’ll drink his health, ma’am, to show there’s no animosity.” Captain John fetched a bottle of brandy and glasses and mixed drinks for his guests. Then he took his seat, reached out for flint and steel again, and says he very quietly–

“I wish the boys were at home. We’d have a bonfire.”

“Up to Walsall–that’s where I come from,” said the preacher, “we always kept up His Majesty’s birthday with a bonfire and fireworks. But you don’t seem so loyal in these parts.”

“Fireworks? Did you now?” Captain John set down the tinder-box and rubbed his chin. “Well,” said he, going to a cupboard, and glancing up on his way at the tall clock, “as it happens I’ve a rocket or two here– though to be sure it seems like a waste, with nobody left in the Cove to see or raise so much as a cheer.”

“It’s the spirit of the thing that counts,” said the preacher.

“They’ve lain here so long,” Captain John went on in a sort of musing way, “they may be mildewed, for all I know.”

“You leave that to me,” said the preacher; “I knows all about fireworks. There don’t seem nothing wrong about this one,” he said, taking it and fingering the fuse. “May I have a try with ’em?”

“Try, and welcome. I don’t understand these things for my part: I only know they takes up a lot of room in the cupboard, and I’ll be glad to see the last of ’em.”

So out into the night they three went together. But when they had the rocket fixed, Captain John was taken that poorly he had to come back and sit in the chair, and rub his thighs and his stomach. And when, sitting there, he heard the rocket go up, whoosh! he had to rub them the harder.

“It went off capital!” called the preacher, popping his head in at the door. “Can’t us try another?” And now Captain John had to rub his eyes before turning to him. “Take the lot,” he said, and pushed the whole bundle into the preacher’s hands. “Aw, if King George had a few more friends like you! Take the lot of ’em, loyal man!” He fairly thrust him out to door, and had to lean a hand there before he could follow, feeling weak all over to think of Collector Wearne and his men, and what their faces must be like, down in the Revenue cutter; but he had no time to taste the fun of it properly, for just then he heard Bessie Bussow’s voice outside asking questions all of a screech. The first rocket had fetched her over hot-foot and agog, and the captain had to run out and stop her tongue, and send her home with Ann Geen. But they didn’t go till the preacher had touched off every single rocket, stepping back as they went whoosh! whoosh! and waving his hat and crying, “God save the King!” “God save the King!” cried Captain John after him, and Bessie stood wondering if the end of the world had come, or the master had gone clean out of his wits.