Chapter Twenty Five.
Tom Jennen’s Opinion.
“Poor lass!” said Geoffrey, as he walked in the direction of Pengelly’s cottage. “They’d have half killed her. I wish I had hit those fellows harder. It will frighten the poor old woman to death.”
He then went on thinking a little about Rhoda Penwynn.
“She must have seen me flourishing my fists,” he said, laughing. “I must have looked gentlemanly. I like that girl somehow, but by George, she’s as proud as a peacock. Pea-hens are not proud. I wonder whether she will marry that Tregenna after all.”
He was brought back from surmise to reality by the sight of the people clustering about the cottages on the cliff, as he entered the little town and noted that a variety of ominous scowls awaited him. There were plenty of women about, and they had stones and stale fish in their hands. The rough lads had increased in number, and a number of the fishermen, among whom was Tom Jennen, were standing by the rails as if to see some expected sight.
“Hang me if I don’t think they are getting up a warm reception for this respectable individual. That’s pleasant! A sort of running marine pillory. What shall I do? Go back?”
“Not this time!” he said, setting his teeth, and taking a very shabby old black meerschaum from a case; he closed the fastening with a loud snap, pulled out an india-rubber pouch, filled the pipe, deliberately walking slowly and calmly along gazing in the most unruffled way in the faces of the women, and not deigning to notice the rough lads, all of whom seemed to be only waiting for a signal to begin showering their missiles upon his head.
Suddenly the great stupid-looking fisher lad whom Geoffrey had knocked down, strode out in front of him, spread his legs apart, set his arms akimbo, and pretty well barred the narrow granite-paved way.
A low buzz of excitement arose, the lads grasped their missiles ready to throw, but the women dropped their arms to their sides or behind them, as they gazed at the fine, manly young fellow, who looked at them with a half-mocking smile upon his lip as he passed.
Geoffrey did not flinch. On the contrary, a red spot appeared in each of his cheeks as he put the amber mouth-piece of his pipe between his lips, strode forward, laid one strong hand upon the fellow’s shoulder, and, apparently without effort, swung him round.
“Stand aside, you cowardly hound!” he cried aloud; went on three or four yards, and stopped in front of Tom Jennen and the group of men who stood staring with all their might.
“Give us a light, fisherman!” said Geoffrey, bluffly.
“Light? Ay, my lad,” was the reply, and the rough fellow brought out a brass box of matches, and handed it to Geoffrey, who coolly opened it, struck a match, and sheltered light and pipe between the hollow of his hands, drew vigorously, and puffed out clouds of smoke between his fingers, after which he returned the box with a bluff “Thanky!”
“Where does Amos Pengelly live?” he said then.
“Up yon turn, ninth house, with a green door,” said Tom Jennen. “There’s a gashly old bit o’ rock opposite.”
As he spoke, he pointed to a narrow steep path which Geoffrey had passed, and which necessitated his running the gauntlet again, as it were.
But he was equal to the task.
“I say, fisherman,” he said, addressing Tom Jennen, but meaning it for the group, “If I were you I should use the rope’s-end there, and try to make those cowardly young lubbers men!”
Then thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked coolly back, looking woman after woman in the face, turned up the passage, and was gone.
No sooner was his back turned, than the boys uttered a yell, and made as if to throw, but the women turned upon them fiercely, and Tom Jennen and his mates cleared the road by making a menacing charge.
“Well, of all the smart young chaps as ever I set eyes on,” said one woman, “he’s about the best. Put that there gashly old fish down, Jan Dwiod, or I’ll give you a smack i’ th’ mouth.”
“That’s pluck, that is,” said Tom Jennen, with his hands very far down in his pockets. “That’s the sorter stuff as men’s made on. That’s pluck, that is,” he continued, nodding at every one in turn, and then at intervals repeating the words—“that’s pluck!” Geoffrey did not know it then, but his cool treatment of the party lying in wait for him, had made him, as it were, a king, and in place of menace on his next appearance in the streets there was a smile on every lip, and he might have had the help of all for the holding up of a hand.
Meanwhile he had reached Pengelly’s cottage to knock and be told by a woman next door that the owner was gone out preaching, and wouldn’t be back till night.
“Ask him to run up to Mrs Mullion’s when he comes,” said Geoffrey, and the woman promising to convey his message, he went back to his lodgings to dine and complete his plans.