The desolate hut in its rocky niche looked miserable when he climbed up back on his return from Van Heldre’s, so he stopped by the granite wall and smiled.
“Finest prospect in all Cornwall,” he said, half aloud; “freshest air. Should like to blow up Leslie’s works, though.”
The door was locked, but it yielded to the heavy key which secured it against visitors, though they were very rare upon that rocky shelf.
He was the more surprised then, after his frugal mid-day meal, by a sharp rapping at the door, and on going he stared angrily at the two sturdy sailor-dressed pedlars, who were resting their packs on the low granite wall.
“Can we sell a bit o’ ’bacco, or a pound o’ tea, master?” said the man who had won over Liza to the purchase of his coloured silk.
“Bang!”
That was Uncle Luke’s answer as the man spoke to him and his fellow swept the interior of the cottage with one quick glance.
“Steal as soon as sell any day,” grumbled Uncle Luke. “Tobacco and tea, indeed!”
Outside one of the men gave his companion a wink and a laugh, as he shouldered his pack, while the other chuckled and followed his example.
Meanwhile Uncle Luke had seated himself at his rough deal table, and written a long business letter to his lawyer in London.