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“Why, bless your heart!” said Tregenza, laying a hand on the boat’s transom with affectionate pride, “you must be the only man in Ardevora that don’t know about her. Scores of folk comes here, Sunday afternoons, an’ passes me compliments upon her.” He passed a hand caressingly over her stern board. “There’s a piece o’ timber for you! Inch-an’-a-quarter teak, an‘ seasoned! That’s where her name’s to go–the Pass By. No; I couldn’t fancy any other name.”

The Elder was dumb. He understood now, and pitied the man, who nevertheless (he told himself) deserved his affliction.

“No, I couldn’ fancy any other name,” went on Tregenza in a musing tone. “If the Lord has a grievance agen me for settin’ too much o’ my heart on the old Pass By, He’ve a-took out o’ me all the satisfaction He’s likely to get. ‘Tisn’ like the man that built a new Jericho an’ set up the foundations thereof ‘pon his first-born an’ the gates ‘pon his youngest. The cases don’t tally; for my son an’ gran’son went down together in th’ old boat, an’ I got nobody left.”

“There’s your gran’daughter,” the Elder suggested.

“Liz?” Tregenza shook his head. “I reckon she don’t count.”

“She’ll count enough to get sent to gaol,” said the Elder tartly, “if you encourage her to be a thief. And look here, Sam Tregenza, it seems to me you’ve very loose notions o’ what punishment means, an’ why ’tis sent. The Lord takes away the Pass By, an’ your son an’ gran’son along with her, an’ why? (says you). Because (says you) your heart was too much set ‘pon the boat. Now to my thinkin’ you was a deal likelier punished because you’d forgot your duty to your neighbour an’ neglected to pay up the insurance.”

Tregenza shook his head again, slowly but positively. “‘Tis curious to me,” he said, “how you keep harkin’ back to that bit o’ money you lost. But ’tis the same, I’ve heard, with all you rich fellows. Money’s the be-all and end-all with ‘ee.”

The Elder at this point fairly stamped with rage; but before he could muster up speech the street-door opened and the child Lizzie slipped into the kitchen. Slight noise though she made, her grandfather caught the sound of her footsteps. A look of greed crept into his face, as he made hurriedly for the back-doorway.

“Liz!” he called.

“Yes, gran’fer.”

“Where’ve yer been?”

“Been to school.”

“Brought any wood?”

“How could I bring any wood when–” Her voice died away as she caught sight of the Elder following her grandfather into the kitchen; and in a flash, glancing from her to Tregenza, the Elder read the truth–that the child was habitually beaten if she failed to bring home timber for the boat.

She stood silent, at bay, eyeing him desperately.

“Look here,” said the Elder, and caught himself wondering at the sound of his own voice; “if ’tis wood you want, let her come and ask for it. I’m not sayin’ but she can fetch away an armful now an’ then–in reason, you know.”

IV.

The longer Elder Penno thought it over, the more he confessed himself puzzled, not with Tregenza, but with his own conduct.

Tregenza was mad, and madness would account for anything.

But why should he, Elder Penno, be moved to take a sudden interest, unnecessary as it was inquisitive, in this mad old man, who had fooled him out of seventy-five pounds?

Yet so it was. The Elder came again, two days later, and once again before the end of the week. By the end of the second week the visit had become a daily one. What is more, day by day he found himself looking forward to it.

That Tregenza also looked forward to it might be read in the invariable eagerness of his welcome; and this was even harder to explain, because the Elder never failed to harp–seldom, indeed, relaxed harping–on old misdeeds and the lost insurance money. Nay, perhaps in scorn of his own weakness, he insisted on this more and more offensively; rehearsing each day, as he climbed the hill, speeches calculated to offend or hurt. But in the intervals he would betray–as he could not help feeling–some curiosity in the boat.