In the end Parson Grose proposed that Farmer Pendre should send a challenge to Mr Digory Strout, and Canon Roulson as vehemently proposed that Mr Digory Strout should send a challenge to Farmer Pendre. Each advocated the cause of his own parish with great warmth, speaking louder and louder, until Parson Grose noticed a man who was ploughing two fields away stop his team to listen, and then he gave in, certain that the canon would have his own way, if they argued till doomsday. Their interview over, the good parsons mounted their dobbins and galloped home, only to find that Digory and Pendre had gone to Penzance, for it was market-day there. The rivals met at the junction of the St Just and Land’s End roads, and what must they do, after looking daggers at one another, but race all the way to the Western Hotel? In Penzance they moved about the streets until dinner-time with a supporter on each side, and farmers, foreseeing an outburst at the ordinary, flocked to the “Western” in such numbers that sitting-room was hard to find. A chair, however, at one end of the long table was reserved for Digory, who was two minutes late. Strout was the coolest man in the crowded room, and seemed to be enjoying the beefsteak-pie, for he had a second helping; but Farmer Pendre, who sat facing him, spent the time in watching his rival from behind a huge rump of beef. The general conversation, which was fitful from the start, became hushed when the cheese came on, and Digory, who spoke in his ordinary voice, could be clearly heard at the end of the room. As he happened to make some casual remark in which the words “best dog” occurred, up jumped Farmer Pendre and in loud, excited tones exclaimed, “Ef you want to find the best dog, you must look for et outside St Just.”
In the dead silence which followed, all eyes were fixed on Digory, and the waiters moved about on tiptoe. Digory sat turning over Farmer Pendre’s heated words during twenty seconds, which seemed like twenty minutes to the company, then standing up he said, “I hope I do not misinterpret the drift of Mr Pendre’s remark. If he means it for a challenge, I accept it. I am willing that my dog shall run against his on Feasten Monday for any stakes he likes to name.” The emphatic manner in which the company brought their glasses down on the table, making the spoons ring again, showed they approved of Digory’s challenge, which had been uttered in a voice that betrayed no sign of passion.
Sancreed Churchtown. [Face page 150.
“I accept your challenge, Mr Strout,” said Farmer Pendre, knocking over his neighbour’s toddy as he jumped up, “and will back my dog against yours for £50, even money; and if you’re willin’, we’ll meet in Sancreed Churchtown at ten o’clock on the morning you name.”
The diamond of Digory’s ring flashed as he waved his hand in assent, and immediately the buzz of conversation around the table became deafening. Thus was the match arranged, and a safety-valve provided for the pent-up animosity of two parishes which neither hurling nor wrestling had ever roused to so dangerous a pitch. Before ten o’clock that night it was known in every hamlet in the “West Country” that Pendre’s challenge—for so it was put—had been accepted. In the interval between the Thursday and Feasten Monday the subject of coursing was in everybody’s mouth, and people were surprised that neither Canon Roulson nor Parson Grose referred to it in their sermons on Sunday evening.