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“Good evenin’, preacher dear,” says Sally, acting spokeswoman; “and a very fine night for the time of year.”

I reckon that for a moment the preacher took a scare. Monstrous fine women they were to be sure, looming up over him in the dimmety light, and two or three of them tall as Grenadiers. But hearing himself forespoken so pleasantly, he came to a stand and peered at them through his gold-rimmed glasses.

“Ah, good evening, ladies!” says he. “You are, I presoom, members of the society that I’ve just had the privilege of addressin’?” And thereupon they dropped him another curtsy all together. “Like me, I dare say you find the scent of the new-mown hay refreshingly grateful. And what a scene! What a beautiful porch, so to speak, to the beauties of Cornwall!–beauties of which I have often heard tell.”

“Yes, Sir,” answers Sal demurely. “Did you ever hear tell, too, why Old Nick never came into Cornwall?”

“H’m–ha–some proverbial saying, no doubt? But–you will excuse me–I think we should avoid speaking lightly of the great Enemy of Mankind.”

“He was afraid,” pursued Sal, “of being put into a pie.” She paused at that, giving her words time to sink in. The preacher didn’t notice yet awhile that Long Eliza Treleaven and Thomasine Oliver had crept round a bit and planted themselves in the footpath behind him.

After a bit Sal let herself go in a comfortable smile, and says she, in a pretty, coaxing voice, “Sit yourself down, preacher, that’s a dear: sit yourself down, nice and close, and have a talk!”

The poor fellow fetched a start at this. He didn’t know, of course, that everyone’s “my dear” in Cornwall, and I’m bound to say I’ve seen foreigners taken aback by it–folks like commercial travellers, not given to shyness as a rule.

“You’ll excuse me, Madam.”

“No, I won’t: not if you don’t come and sit down quiet. Bless the man, I’m not going to eat ‘ee–wouldn’t harm a hair of your dear little head, if you had any! What? You refuse?”

“How dare you, Madam!” The preacher drew himself up, mighty dignified. “How dare you address me in this fashion!”

“I’m addressin’ you for your good,” answered Sally. “We’ve been talkin’ over your sermon, me and my friends here–all very respectable women–and we’ve made up our minds that it won’t do. We can’t have it ‘pon our conscience to let a gentleman with your views go kicking up Jack’s delight through the West. We owe something more to our sex. ‘Wrestlin’ with ’em–that was one of your expressions–‘wrestlin’ with our dear Cornish sisters’!”

“In the spirit–a figure of speech,” explained the poor man, snappy-like.

Sal shook her head. “They know all about wrestlin’ down yonder. I tell you, ‘twon’t do. You’re a well-meaning man, no doubt; but you’re terribly wrong on some points. You’d do an amazing amount of mischief if we let you run loose. But we couldn’t take no such responsibility–indeed we couldn’t: and the long and short of it is, you’ve got to go.”

She spoke these last words very firmly. The preacher flung a glance round and saw he was in a trap.

“Such shameless behaviour–” he began.

“You’ve got to go back,” repeated Sally, nodding her head at him. “Take my advice and go quiet.”

“I can only suppose you to be intoxicated,” said he, and swung round upon the path where Thomasine Oliver stood guard. “Allow me to pass, Madam, if you please!”

But here the mischief put it into Long Eliza to give his hat a flip by the brim. It dropped over his nose and rolled away in the grass. “Oh, what a dear little bald head!” cried Long Eliza; “I declare I must kiss it or die!” She caught up a handful of hay as he stooped, and–well, well, Sir! Scandalous, as you say! Not a word beyond this would any of them tell: but I do believe the whole gang rolled the poor man in the hay and took a kiss off him–“making sweet hay,” as ’tis called. ‘Twas only known that he paid the bill for his lodging a little after dawn next morning, took up his bag, and passed down Fore Street towards the Quay. Maybe a boat was waiting for him there: at all events, he was never seen again–not on this side of Tamar.