"I won't spoil the day for them," he said to himself; "but they shall not get off; they shall have something warming next Sunday." The worthy man did not foresee that next Sunday the church would be half empty, the people having concluded that he had found the iniquities of John Trevanion an unprofitable theme.
After church the young folks trooped into the barn, where a Christmas dinner had been spread for them, and the men flocked down to the village, to spend an hour while their wives prepared the meal. For the first time in the history of the parish they passed by the open door of the Five Pilchards and made their way to the Three Jolly Mariners, to the delight of the innkeeper and the amazement of its few habitués.
In the afternoon someone suggested that they should row out to the fairway to see the rock which Dick had thrown down. The oldsters, after their Christmas dinner, were disinclined to move; but Jake Tonkin, Ike Pendry, and others of the younger generation hailed the opportunity of stretching their legs, and a procession of boats rowed out to the spot. The sun, by this time creeping to the west, lit up the face of the cliff with a ruddy gleam, and a young miner, perched on the top of the rock, called the attention of the others to the appearance of curious streaks on the rugged surface of the promontory, where the falling rock had struck off fragments as it bounded down.
"They look uncommon like silver," said he.
"'Tis the deceivin' sun," said Jake Tonkin. "Theer bean't neither silver nor tin worth delvin' for hereabouts."
"Maybe, but I be goin' to see," said the miner. "Gie me that boat-hook, my sonny."
He got into a boat, and was rowed to the base of the cliff, whence he climbed with careful step. The others watched him with more interest in his feat than in the object of it. On reaching one of the longest of the streaks he hacked at the rock with the hook, then suddenly looked round, and cried—
"Daze me, my sonnies, if it bean't as good silver tin ore as ever I seed. There's riches here, take my word for't."
"Be-jowned if I bean't fust to tell Squire," cried Jake Tonkin, instantly pulling his boat round and making for the shore. The others followed him, deaf to the entreaties of the miner to come back and take him off. Half-a-dozen boats raced madly to the beach; a score of youths sprang out, dashed through the village, up the hill, and along the high road. One, thinking to gain an advantage over the rest, tried to leap one of John Trevanion's fences, and fell headlong to the ground, his competitors shouting with laughter, none attempting to emulate him.
Jabez Mail, the son of Simon, arrived first at the Towers, but Ike Pendry, only a yard behind, caught him by the tail of his Sunday coat, and while the two were wrestling, Jake Tonkin slipped past them and rushed into the house without knocking. Remembering the situation of the Squire's room from his last visit, he ran straight to it, followed by a dozen others, some entering with him, others crowding at the door.