“Lord, no! I’ve got no horse. Walked from Padstow.”
“You!—walked!”
“Yes, heel and toe . . . two days. God, my feet are sore!”
“How did you come to get to Padstow?”
“Collier brig from Cardiff. Had to work my passage at that; my hands are like raw meat from hauling on those damned braces—look! Slept in a cow-shed at Illogan last night and milked the cows for breakfast. I’ll warrant the farmer wondered why they were dry this morning—ha, ha! Never mind, that’s all over. What do you think of this?”
He reached inside the stable door and brought out a new fowling piece.
“Bought this for you in Gloucester,” said he; “thought of you the minute I saw it. It’s pounds lighter than father’s old blunderbuss, and look here . . . this catch holds the priming and keeps it dry; pull the trigger, down comes the hammer, knocks the catch up and bang! See? Clever, ain’t it? Take hold.”
Eli took hold of the gun like a man in a dream. Beautiful weapon though it was, he did not even look at it.
“But why . . . why did you work your passage?” he asked.
“Because they wouldn’t carry me for nothing, wood-head.”