The Vicar's People Part 37

"Too exposed," said Mr Penwynn, thoughtfully.

"Well, yes, it is exposed, certainly."

"What do they want for it?"

"A thousand, but between ourselves they wouldn't refuse eight hundred."

"No, I suppose not," said Mr Penwynn, dryly. "Look here, Tregenna, what will you spring towards having the place pumped out, quietly you know, to see if there's any truth in your fellow's a.s.sertion?"

Tregenna sat tapping the table with his fingers, and he did not reply.

"You don't seem to rise at that fly," said Mr Penwynn, laughing.

"I was thinking whether I could get them to advance fifty pounds for the purpose; but they're so poor, and if they would it could only be on some undertaking to buy. I tell you what, Penwynn, I haven't much faith in the fellow's statement proving correct--I believe, mind you, he's an honest fellow, but he may have been mistaken--in fact I haven't much faith in any thing now," he continued dismally; "but I tell you what I'll do; I'll stand fifty to your fifty to examine the place properly before you do any thing else, on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That if it turns out a failure and you don't buy, you'll make that fifty up to me out of something else--that you won't let me be the loser."

"What else?"

Tregenna laughed.

"There's no doing you, Penwynn, with an a.s.sumption of modesty. There, frankly, I want something more off it. If it turns out a good thing you will come down handsome."

"I will," said Mr Penwynn. "You leave that to my honour, and I will."

Tregenna screwed up his face a little.

"That's rather vague, my dear sir," he said.

"Well, vague or no, what do you want?"

"A thousand pounds."

"A thousand grandmothers," said Mr Penwynn, pettishly.

"Well, that's not unreasonable," said Tregenna. "I suppose--well, we won't suppose, but put it in plain figures--if that mine should turn out well--"

"Which it will not."

"Well, it is the merest chance, but I say if it does turn out well, I shall have ten per cent of its market value two years hence."

"Done," said Mr Penwynn, holding out his hand.

"Agreed," said Tregenna, grasping it. "Now write a memo to that effect."

"Isn't it premature rather, seeing that I have decided nothing?"

"Well, perhaps it is," said Tregenna, taking out his watch. "I must be off. Think the matter over for a few days. Shall I keep it quiet, or try elsewhere?"

"Try elsewhere if you like," said Mr Penwynn, carelessly.

"All right. Good-morning," said Tregenna. "My kind regards at home."

Mr Penwynn nodded, and Tregenna went out, nodded to Chynoweth, who was shutting down his desk-lid over a hand of whist, and then walked swiftly away, muttering one word--

"Hooked!"

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

HUNTING A WITCH.

Geoffrey strode right across the heather and stones to Horton mine, bent upon, if possible, securing the services of Pengelly if they were to be had. If not, he felt bound to take counsel with him, and let him know his every step.

The manager was at his office, and welcomed Geoffrey in a very friendly way.

"Want Pengelly, eh!" he said, looking at the speaker, inquiringly. "He won't be here to-day. But look here, Mr Trethick, I like you. You're a man with some stuff in you. Let me give you a word of advice."

"Thank you," said Geoffrey. "What is it?"

"Don't let Amos Pengelly lead you into any sc.r.a.pe. He's mad, that's what he is; and if you don't look out he'll persuade you to take up some mining spec, such as that old fly-blown Wheal Carnac, and ruin you. The fact is, Mr Trethick, between you and me, Cornwall's about pumped out.

You understand."

"Yes, I understand," said Geoffrey, who felt much amused.

"You take care of yourself, and wait till something turns up. Don't you be in too great a hurry. As for Amos Pengelly, he's religious crazy, and half his time don't know what he's about."

"Where do you suppose he is to-day?"

"Dressed up in his black satin waistcoat and long togs, gone preaching.

There's a revival meeting somewhere."

"All right; thanks," said Geoffrey, and, with a bluff "good-morning," he strode off back again; but before he had gone many yards he determined to try and make a short cut across to the cliff, west of Carnac.

"I can have a good look at the old mine, and call in at Pengelly's cottage and leave word that I want to see him," thought Geoffrey.

"That chap'll get himself into a sc.r.a.pe with Amos Pengelly, if he don't look out," muttered the manager, as he watched his visitor out of sight.

"He's one of your jolly, honest sort, he is, and Amos Pengelly's one of your religious kind. If them two put their heads together there'll be a nice mess made of it."

After delivering himself of this prophecy, the manager went back into his office to begin a laborious process of making up accounts; while Geoffrey, with the brisk sea-breeze making his pulses throb, crossed rough sc.r.a.ps of pasture, leaped the quaint Cornish stiles of parallel blocks of stone, heavily-laden slopes of granite, stony track, and rugged ravine, with a tiny stream at the bottom, overhung with ferns.

He had meant to make a bee-line for the cliff, but the country was more rugged than he antic.i.p.ated. Then, too, he had to follow a path here and there formed on the top of the low granite walls that separated various plots; and the result was, that instead of striking the cliff just west of the town, he found himself beyond the older ruined mine, and nearly as far as Gwennas Cove.

"Might as well go and see the old lady," he said to himself, as he scrambled down the steep face of the cliff, and reached the shelf-like path. "No, I'll get on with my work now," he continued; and, turning at once for the town, he had not gone a hundred yards before he became aware of a loud shouting and yelling, as if something was being hunted along the cliff.

"Why, what could they hunt here?" he said to himself. "Foxes? seals?