The men with one accord drew their pipes out and looked at her.

“I mean it.  If Porthlooe was the place it used to be, there’d be tin kettles in plenty to drum en out o’ this naybourhood to the Rogue’s March next time he showed his face here.  When’s he comin’ back?”

No one knew.

“The girl’s as bad; but ’twould be punishment enough for her to know her lover was hooted out o’ the parish.  Mind you, I’ve no grudge agen the man.  I liked his dare-devil look, the only time I saw en.  I’m only sayin’ what I think—­that you’m all afeard.”

“I don’t b’long to the parish,” remarked a Landaviddy man, in the pause that followed, “but ’tis incumbent on Lanihale, I’m fain to admit.”

The Lanihale men fired up at this.

“I’ve a tin-kettle,” said Calvin Oke, “an’ I’m ready.”

“An’ I for another,” said Elias Sweetland.  “An’ I, An’ I,” echoed several voices.

“Stiddy there, stiddy, my hearts of oak,” began Old Zeb, reflectively.  “A still tongue makes a wise head, and ‘twill be time enough to talk o’ shal-lals when the weddin’-day’s fixed.  Now I’ve a better notion.  It will not be gain-said by any of ’ee that I’ve the power of logic in a high degree—­hey?”

“Trew, O king!”

“Surely, surely.”

“The rarity that you be, crowder!  Sorely we shall miss ’ee when you’m gone.”

“Very well, then,” Old Zeb announced.  “I’m goin’ to be logical wi’ that chap.  The very next time I see en, I’m goin’ to step up to en an’ say, as betwixt man an’ man, ’Look ‘ee here,’ I’ll say, ’I’ve a lawful son.  You’ve a-took his name, an’ you’ve a-stepped into his shoes, an’ therefore I’ve a right to spake’” (he pulled at his churchwarden), “’to spake to ‘ee’” (another pull) “‘like a father.’” Here followed several pulls in quick succession.

The pipe had gone out.  So, still holding the attention of the room, he reached out a hand towards the tongs.  Prudy, anticipating his necessity, caught them up, dived them into the blaze, and drawing out a blazing end of stick, held it over the pipe while he sucked away.

During this pause a heavy step was heard in the passage.  The door was pushed open, and a tall man, in dripping cloak and muddy boots, stalked into the room.

It was the man they had been discussing.

“A dirty night, friends, and a cold ride from Plymouth.”  He shook the water out of his hat over the sanded floor.  “I’ll take a pull at something hot, if you please.”

Every one looked at him.  Prudy, forgetting what she was about, waved the hot brand to and fro under Old Zeb’s nose, stinging his eyes with smoke.  Between confusion and suffocation, his face was a study.

“You seem astonished, all of you.  May I ask why?”

“To tell ’ee the truth, young man,” said Prudy, “’twas a case of ’talk of the devil an’ you’ll see his horns.’”

“Indeed.  You were speaking good of me, I hope.”