"Then we'll go slower. Suppose that you wished to drive towards Polperro over turf, never minding the jolts, and not to strike into the hard road until you were compelled. How far could you contrive to travel in this way?"
Farmer Menhennick found a seat and sat scratching his head. "Three miles, maybe," he decided at length.
"And what sort of road is this when you strike it?"
"Turnpike."
"Indeed? And where's the pike?"
"At Cann's Gate."
"That tells me nothing, I'm afraid; but we'll put the question in another form. Suppose that we are forced at length to leave the turf and fields and strike into the road for Polperro. Now where would this happen? Some way beyond the turnpike, I imagine."
"Indeed no, sir: it would be a mile on this side of the pike, or threequarters at the least."
"You are sure?"
"Sure as I sit here. Why the road goes down a coombe; and before you get near the turnpike, the coombe narrows so." The farmer illustrated the V by placing his hands at an angle.