here, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “as we are to be such near neighbours, and you evidently would like me to make a clean breast of it, here it all is: – I am a mining engineer; a bit of a chemist; I have no appointment; and I have come down to get one.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong place, young man.”
“So Mr Penwynn told me.”
“Oh, you’ve been there, have you?”
“Yes.”
“Seen his daughter?”
“No, nor do I want to see her,” said Geoffrey, throwing the end of his cheroot out of the window. “I’ll take another of those cheroots, sir. They’re strong and full-flavoured; I like them. So you think I’ve come to the wrong place, do you?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, passing the blackest and strongest cheroot in his case. “Of course I do. The mining is all going to the dogs. The companies are one-half of them bankrupt, and the other half pay no dividends. The only people who make money are a set of scoundrelly adventurers who prospect for tin, and when they have found what they call a likely spot – ”
Here there was a pause, while the old gentleman also lit a fresh cheroot.
” – They get up a company; play games with the shares, and get fools to take them, whose money goes down a big hole in the earth.”
“And never comes up again, eh?”
“Never?” said the old man, emphatically.
“Ever been bitten that way?” said Geoffrey, smiling.
“Yes: once,” snarled the other. “They got a hundred pounds out of me over a promising-looking affair – that mine down yonder on the point – Wheal Carnac. Smooth-tongued scoundrel talked me over. Just such a fellow as you.”
“Indeed!” said Geoffrey, smiling.
“Been a lesson to me, though, that I’ve never forgotten.”
“And yet there is money to be made out of mines,” said Geoffrey, quietly. “With proper care, judgment, and good management there are plenty of lapsed undertakings that could be revived, and would pay their shareholders well.”
“Make Wheal Carnac pay, then, and my hundred pounds something better than waste paper.”
“I do not see why not,” said Geoffrey, earnestly.
Old Mr Paul pushed back his chair and made it scroop loudly on the summer-house floor, as he bared his yellow teeth in a grin.
“I thought so,” he exclaimed, with a harsh chuckle. “There, out with it, man! What’s the mine? Is it Wheal Ruby, or Bottom Friendship, or Evening Star, or what? How many shares are you going to stick into some noodle or another?”
“I sell shares? Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Geoffrey. “I never held or sold one in my life. No, sir, I am no share-jobber. I have come down here to carve my way in quite different fashion.”
“In granite?” sneered the old man.
“In the world, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, rising. “And now I must be off. I want to have a good look round. I see that you and I will get on capitally together. Whenever you are in the humour throw open your door, and I’ll open mine, and we’ll quarrel. I enjoy a good row.”
He nodded shortly, and strode off, his stout boots rattling the shingle stones of the path, and the gate giving a loud bang behind him, while directly after the echo of his steps could be heard as he clattered down over the rough granite paving towards the shore.
“Curse him!” cried the old man, getting up and craning his neck out of the summer-house window to stare after his late companion. “He’s a great ugly, overgrown puppy: that’s what he is, and I was an old idiot to bring him up here. Insulted me. Laughed in my face. As good as told me that I was an old fool. Never mind: I’ll bring him down, big as he is, and he’ll do to keep out the parson. Here! hi! somebody, Madge, Madge,” he shouted, reseating himself, and banging the floor with his cane.
There was no reply.
“Madge!” roared the old man again, beating the table for a change.
“Madge has gone out, dear,” said plump Mrs Mullion, hurrying out to the summer-house.
“Where’s my newspaper?” cried the old man, angrily. “I never get my newspaper to the time. Do you hear, I want my newspaper. If you can’t have me properly attended to by that cat of a girl, I declare I’ll go. Do you hear? I’ll go. I’m looking out now for a plot of land to build a house where I can be in peace and properly attended to. Do you hear? I want my newspaper – ‘The Times.’”
“There it is, dear,” said Mrs Mullion, upon whom this storm did not seem to have the slightest effect, “you are sitting upon it.”
“Then why, in the name of Buddha, was the paper put in my chair? A table’s the place for a paper. Where’s Madge?”
“Gone out for a walk, dear.”
“She’s always gone for a walk. I wish to good – ”
Rustle – rustle – rustle of the paper.
” – To goodness I had nev – ”
Rustle – rustle – rustle —
” – Had never come to this con – ”
Rustle – rustle – rustle. Bang in the middle and double up.
” – Come to this confounded place. Hang Madge! She’ll get into disgrace one of these – and – eh – um – oh. Hah! at last! um – um – um. ‘North-west provinces. This important question came on last night,’ um – um – um.”
The old man’s irritable voice toned down into a hum like that of a gigantic bee, for Uncle Paul was safe now to be in peace and good temper for a couple of hours at least over the debates in his newspaper, and Mrs Mullion, as unruffled as ever, was already back indoors, thinking over her half-brother’s words, and wondering whether they would ever prove true.
Chapter Eight
Geoffrey Makes a Discovery
There were plenty of heads thrust out of the granite cottages on either side of the steep way as Geoffrey strode on, ready to give back frank, open look for curious gaze, and to take notice that the people were dark and swarthy; that there were plenty of brown fishing-nets, and blackened corks, and swollen bladders, hanging from the walls, in company with a pair or two of sculls, a hitcher and a mast from some small boat, with now and then what seemed to be a human being split and hung up to dry after the fashion of a haddock, but which proved to be only an oilskin fishing-suit.
At one cottage door a huge pair of fisher’s boots stood out in the sun, as if they were being worn by some invisible prince or Cornish giant. At another door sat a woman cleaning a long, snaky-looking hake, opposite to a neighbour who was busily counting pilchards, which had evidently been brought up from one of the boats by a big, brown, bluff-looking man, who, from top to toe, seemed as if he had some idea of going into the harlequin profession, so spangled was he with
