Mr. Noy found his snuff-box, took a heavy pinch, inhaled it, and closed his box with a snap. Then he faced the farmer's wife with a low bow.
"Madam," said he, "you may put this young gentleman to bed, and the sooner the better. He has lost a large sum of money, which I am fairly confident I can recover for him without his help; and your parish—which is also mine—has lost its character, and this also I propose to recover. But to that end I must require your excellent husband to fetch out his trap and drive me with all speed to Squire Granville's." He paused, and added, "We are in luck to-night undoubtedly; but I fear I can promise him no such luck as to meet a hearse and headless driver on the way.… One moment, Mr. Menhennick! Have you such things as pen, ink and paper, and a farm-boy able to ride?"
"Certainly I have, sir."
"Then while you are harnessing your nag, I'll drop a line to the riding-officer at Polperro; and if after receipt of it he allows a single fishing-boat to leave the harbour, he'll be sorry—that's all. Now, sir—Eh? Why are you hesitating?"
"Well, indeed, your reverence knows best; and if you force me to drive over to Squire Granville's, why then I must. But I warn you, sir, that he hunts to-morrow; and if, begging your pardon, you knew the old varmint's temper on a hunting day in the morning—"
"Hunts, does he? D'ye mean that he keeps a pack of hounds?"
"Why, of course, sir!"
Farmer Menhennick's accent was pathetically reproachful.
"God forgive me! And I didn't know it—I, your rector! Your rebuke is just, Mr. Menhennick. And this Church of England of ours—I say it with shame—is full of scandals. Where do they meet to-day?"
"Four-barrow Hill, your reverence."