“Now, I be like ’Possel Paul,” he said, rubbing his hands, and stretching them out to the blaze.  “After his shipwreck, you know, when the folks ’pon the island showed en kindness.  This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvellous in your eyes.

“’Not fearing nor doubting,
With Christ by my side,
I hopes to die shouting,
The Lord will provide!’”

Humility thought that for certain the shipwreck had turned his head.

“But where do you come from?” she asked.

“They call me Jacky Pascoe, ma’am; but I calls myself the King’s Postman—­

“’Jacky Pascoe is my name,
Wendron is my nation,
Nowhere is my dwelling-place,
For Christ is my salvation—­’

“I was brought to a miner, over to Wheal Jewel, in Illogan Parish; but got conversion fifteen years since, an’ now I go about praising the Name.  I’ve been miner, cafender, cooper, mason, seaman, scissor-grinder, umbrella-mender, holli-bubber, all by turns.  I sticks my hands in my pockets, an’ waits on the Lord; an’ what he tells me to do, I do.  This day week I was up to Fowey, working on the tip.[1] There was a little schooner there, the Garibaldi, of Newport, discharging coal.  The Lord said to me, ’Arise, go in that there schooner!’ I sought out the skipper, and said, ’Where be bound for next?’ ‘Back to Newport,’ says he.  ‘That’ll suit me,’ I says, an’ persuaded en to take me.  But the Lord knew where she were bound better’n the skipper; and here I be!”

It seemed to his hearers that this man took little thought of his drowned shipmates.  Mr. Raymond looked up as he strapped his books together.

“You were not the only man in that schooner,” he said, rather severely.

“Glory be!  Who be I, to question the Lord’s ways?  One day I picked up a map, an’ seed a place on it called ‘Little Sins.’  ’Little Sins wants great Deliverance,’ says I, an’ I started clane off an’ walked to the place, though I’d never so much as heard of it till then.  ‘Twas harvest-time there, an’ I danced into the field, shouting ‘Glory, glory.  The harvest is plenty, but the labourers be few!’ The farmer was moved to give me a job ’pon the spot.  I bided there two year, an’ built them a chapel an’ preached the Word in it.  They offered me money to stop an’ preach; and I laid it before the Lord.  But He said, ’You’re the King’s Postman.  Keep moving, keep on moving!  ’I’ve built two more chapels since then.”

Late that afternoon three bodies were recovered from the sea—­the captain, the mate, and a boy of about sixteen; and were buried in the churchyard next day, as soon as the inquest was over.  Pascoe followed the coffins, and pointed the service at the grave-side with interjaculations of his own.  “Glory be!” “A-men!” “Hallelujah!” “Great Redemption!” To the Vicar’s surprise the small crowd after a minute began to follow the man’s lead, until at length he could scarcely read for these interruptions.