"The Good Intent will be sailing to-night; I heard Peter Benny say so," she suggested; "and the Mary Rowett to-morrow, if the weather holds."
Tom Trevarthen nodded. "That's so, missy. Old man Hancock of the Good Intent wants a hand, to my knowledge. I'll try 'en, or else walk to Falmouth. Don't you fret for me," he repeated.
They had reached the gate of Hall, over which a gigantic chestnut spread its branches. As Myra faced Tom Trevarthen a laugh sounded overhead; and, looking up, she saw Master Calvin's legs and elastic-sided boots depending from a green bough.
"Hullo, Myra!" Master Calvin called down. "How d'you get on up at the Board School?"
"He don't go to Board School," said Tom Trevarthen, jerking his thumb up towards the bough. "In training to be a gentleman, he is; not like Master Clem. Well, good-bye, missy!"
Myra watched him down the road, and, as he disappeared at the bend, flung a glance up at the chestnut tree.
"Come down," she commanded, in no loud voice, but firmly.
"Shan't."
"What are you doing up there?" She sniffed the air, her sense of smell alive to a strange scent in it. "You nasty, horrid boy, you're smoking!"
"I'm not," answered Master Calvin untruthfully, concealing a pipe. "I'm up here pretending to be Zacchæus."