She continued her search for a cook in Paul and rode home slowly to gain time, turned her horse, as usual, all standing, into the stable, and then went to look for her younger son.
She was not long in finding him; a noise of hammering disclosed his whereabouts.
She approached in a flutter of well-simulated excitement.
“Here you, Eli, Eli!” she called.
“What is it?” he asked, never pausing in his work.
“I’ve just come round by the cliffs from Mousehole; there’s a good ship’s boat washed up in Zawn-a-Bal. Get you round there quick and take her into Monks Cove; she’m worth five pounds if she’m worth a penny.”
Eli looked up. “Hey! . . . What sort of boat?”
“Gig, I think; she’m lying on the sand by the side of the adit.”
Eli whistled. “Gig—eh! All right, I’ll get down there soon’s I’ve finished this.”
Teresa stamped her foot. “Some o’ they Mousehole or Cove men’ll find her if you don’t stir yourself.”