The tinners trudged on together until they were on the western side of Penzance. They were weary, and they found that since they had left home a new road had been made over the hills, which saved them a considerable distance—in fact it was a “short cut.” On they went. “No,” says Tom; “never leave an old road for a new one.” They all laughed at him, and trudged on. But Tom kept in the old road along the valley round the hill. When Tom reached the other end of the “short cut” he thought he would rest a bit, and he sat down by the roadside and ate his fuggan. This his mistress had given him, that he might not break his cake until he got home.
He had not sat long when he heard a noise, and, looking up the hill, he saw his comrades, whom he thought were miles in advance of him, slowly and sorrowfully descending it. They came at last to where Tom was seated, and a sad tale had they to tell. They had scarcely got into the new road when they were set upon by robbers, who took from them “all their little bit of money,” and then beat them because they had no more.
Tom, you may be sure, thought the piece of advice worth something now, as it had saved his bacon.
Tom arrived home at last, and glad was the old woman to see her old man once again; so she made him some “herby tea” at once. He shewed his wife the cake, and told her that all he had received for his share of profits was the piece of advice already given.
The ladies who read this story will understand how vexed was Tom’s wife,—there are but few of them who would not have done as she did, that was to seize the cake from the table and fling it at her husband’s head, calling him an old fool. Tom Trezidder stooped to avoid the blow. Slap against the corner of the dresser went the cake, breaking in pieces with the blow, and out on the lime-ash floor rolled a lot of gold coins.
This soon changed the aspect of things; the storm rolled back, and sunshine was once more in the cottage. The coins were all gathered up, and they found a scrap of paper, on which, when they got the priest to read it, they discovered was written an exact account of each year’s profits, and Tom’s share. The three years’ shares had been duly hoarded for him by his master and mistress; and now this old couple found they had enough to make them comfortable for the rest of their days. Many were the prayers said by Tom and his wife for the happiness and health of the honest Jew tin merchant and his wife.
“WHO ARE THE KNOCKERS?”
Charles Kingsley in his “Yeast: a Problem,” asks this question—Tregarra answers,—
“They are the ghosts, the miners hold, of the old Jews that crucified our Lord, and were sent for slaves by the Roman emperors to work the mines: and we find their old smelting-houses, which we call Jews’ houses, and their blocks at the bottom of the great bogs, which we call Jews’ tin: and then a town among us too, which we call Market-Jew, but the old name was Marazion, that means the bitterness of Zion, they tell me; and bitter work it was for them, no doubt, poor souls! We used to break into old shafts and adits which they had made, and find fine old stag’s-horn pickaxes, that crumbled to pieces when we brought them to grass. And they say that if a man will listen of a still night about these shafts, he may hear the ghosts of them at work, knocking and picking, as clear as if there was a man at work in the next level.”