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Phoby would lief enough have seen Tummels’ back. For the job he meditated the man was not only worse than useless, but might even spy on him and carry warning. His plan was to get the sunk crop of brandy round to St. Ives, deliver it to Squire Stephens, and, at the same time, under cover of the business, make sure of Dan’l’s being at Stack’s Folly, and treat with him, under threats, to give up claim upon his sweetheart. To this end, one night while Tummels was sleeping, he unmoored the Fly tender–a twenty-foot open boat carrying two sprit-sails, owned by him and Dan’l in common, and used for all manner of odd jobs–worked her down to Old Lizard Head single-handed, and crept up to the sunk crop of brandy. Back-breaking work it was to heave the kegs on board; but in an hour before midnight he had stowed the lot and was steering for St. Ives with a stiffish breeze upon his port quarter. The weather couldn’t have served him better. By daylight the Fly was rounding in for St. Ives Quay, having sunk her crop again off the mouth of a handy cave on the town side of Treryn Dinas; and Phoby Geen stepped ashore and ordered breakfast at the George and Dragon before stepping up to talk with Squire Stephens.

In the meantime, Tummels, waking up at four in the morning, as his custom was, and taking a look out of window, missed the Fly from her moorings, which caused him to scratch his head and think hard for ten minutes. Then he washed and titivated himself and walked down to the Kiddlywink.

“Hullo, Tummels!” said Bessie Bussow, hearing his footstep on the pebbles, and popping her old head out of window, nightcap and all. “What fetches you abroad so early?”

“Dress yourself, that’s a dear woman! Dress yourself and come down!” Tummels waited in a sweat of impatience till the old woman opened her front door.

“What’s the matter with the man?” she asked. “Thee’rt lookin’ like a thing hurried in mind.”

“I wants the loan of your horse and trap, missus,” said Tummels.

“Sakes alive, is that all? Why on the wide earth couldn’t you ha’ gone fore to stable an’ fetched ’em, without spoilin’ my beauty-sleep?” asked Bessie.

“No, missus. To be honest with ‘ee that’s not nearly all.” Tummels rubbed the back of his head. “Fact is, I’m off in s’arch of your nephew Phoby Geen, that has taken the Fly round to St. Ives, unless I be greatly mistaken; and what’s more, unless I be greatly mistaken, he means to lay information against Dan’l.”

“If you can prove that to me,” says Bessie, “he’s no nephew o’ mine, and out he goes from my will as soon as you bring back the trap, and I can drive into Helston an’ see Lawyer Walsh.”

“Well, I’m uncommon glad you look at it in that reasonable light,” says Tummels; “for, the man being your own nephew, so to speak, I didn’ like to borry your horse an’ trap to use against ‘en without lettin’ ‘ee know the whole truth.”

“I wish,” says Bessie, “you wouldn’ keep castin’ it in my teeth–or what does dooty for ’em–that the man’s my nephew. You’ll see how much of a nephew he is if you can prove what you charge against ‘en. But family is family until proved otherwise; and so, Mr. Tummels, you shall harness up the horse and bring him around, and I’ll go with you to St. Ives to get to the bottom o’ this. On the way you shall tell me what you do know.”

She was a well-plucked woman for seventy-five, was Bessie Bussow; and had a head on her shoulders too. While Tummels was harnessing, she fit and boiled a dish o’ tea to fortify herself, and after drinking it nipped into the cart as spry as a two-year-old. Off they drove, and came within sight of Stack’s Folly just about the time when Phoby Geen was bringing the Fly into St. Ives harbour.