“I can tell a Londoner at once,” returned the other.
“‘Twould be straange if I couldn’t. I’m Peter Portgartha. P’raps you haven’t heard of me, but I’m well known hereabouts, and if you want to see any of the sights, you’d best coome to me, and I’ll show you round.”
“A guide, eh?”
“There be guides and guides. I’ll say nathin’ about th’ others, but there’s nobody knaws this part of Cornwall like me. I was born and bred and knaw every inch of it. Before the waar I’ve had London ladies say to me: ”Ave you ever seen the Bay of Naples, or the Canaries? Oh, you should see them, Mr. Portgartha, they’re ever so much more grand than Cornwall.’ Well, while the war was on I did see the Canaries and Bay of Naples at Government’s expense on a minesweeper, and they’re not a patch on the Cornwall coast. There’s nathin’ to beat it in the world.”
“It’s good, is it?” said Barrant, with his accustomed affability to strangers. “If I want to see any of it I’ll get you to show me round.”
“Just came along to th’ Mousehole and ask for Peter Portgartha. There’s a great cave at the Mouse’s Hole—that’s what we call it hereabouts, that ain’t to be beaten in the whole world. If your good lady’s here, bring her with you to see it. There ain’t nobody else can show it to her like I can. The London ladies don’t like goin’ down the Mousehole cave as a rule, because it’s a stiffish bit of a climb, and in the holiday season there’s always a lot of raffish young fellows hangin’ round to see the ladies go down—to see what they can see, you knaw. But I never ‘ave no accidents like that. No bold-eyed young chap ever saw the leg of any lady in my charge—not so much as the top of a boot, because I knaw how to taake them down. I’m well known to some of the ‘ighest ladies in the land because I ‘ev been aable to take care of their legs when they were goin’ down. I’ve had letters from them thaankin’ me. You’ve no idea how grateful they be.”
This startling instance of the stern morality of aristocratic womanhood was unfortunately wasted on Barrant, whose thoughts had reverted to the principal preoccupation of his mind. Mr. Portgartha rambled on.
“Aw, but it’s strange to be meetin’ you like this, in old Garge’s wagonette. For twelve months I’ve been goin’ acrass the moors to see a sister of mine, who’s lonely, poor saul, havin’ lost her man in the war—drawned in a drifter ‘e was—and catchin’ this wagonette back every night, with never a saul to speak to, until last night. Last night there was a passerger, and to-night there’s you. Tes strange, come to think of it.” He looked hard at Barrant as if for some confirmatory expression of surprise at this remarkable accession to the wagonette’s fares. He waited so long that Barrant felt called upon to say something.
“Who was your fellow passenger last night?”
“Now you’re asking me a question which takes a bit of answerin’,” replied Mr. Portgartha. “‘Twas like this. I was waitin’ at the crass-roads for old Garge to come along, when a young womon came up out of th’ darkness and stood not far from me—just by the ol’ crass. I tried to maake out who she was, but it was too daark. So I just says to her, ‘Good ebenin’, miss, are you waitin’ for the wagonette too?’ She never answered a word, and before I could think of anything else to say old Garge came along, and we both got in. She sat in a corner, silent as a ghooste. Well, then, I went to light th’ lamp, same as I have to-night, but as luck would ‘ave it, I hadn’t a match. I knaw it was no use askin’ old Garge, ‘cos he’d pretend not to hear, so I turned to the young womon sittin’ opposite, and asked her if she had a match in her pocket. And do you knaw, I declare to gudeness she never said nawthen, not so much as a word!”