“Dashed if us wull! Wheer theer’s fightin’ and a fillyboo, theer’s more’n hard knocks to be gotten. Us’ll soon see what us can get by un!” “Aw dally-buttons, that us wull! They du say as our Saul’s theer in t’ thick of un. But what’s it awl about? Dost any o’ yu knaw?” The swarthy fishermen looked each other in the face with a grin, but nobody seemed ready with an answer. “May’ap ’tis because the king’s dead,” suggested one. “Naw, ’tidden that ezakally,” objected another. “’Tis becos they Frenchers ’ave abin an’ gone for tu ’ave a new bobbery ower theer--what the great folks calls a reverlooshon. They’ve a druv theer king over tu England: that’s what ’as set all the lads ower heer in a takin’ after theer roights.” “’Tidden theer roights theer a’ter,” remarked a woman who was sitting hunched up in the chimney-corner of the hut where this confabulation was going on, “’tis other folks’ goods they want. They thinks wheerever a bobbery be theer’ll be gutterin’ and guzzlin’, and that’s all they care for. You’d a best ’ave nowt tu du with un.” But this piece of advice was received with ridicule and disfavour. “Ef theer be zo much as gutterin’ and guzzlin’ why shetten us be left behind? ’Tidden much of either us gets nowadays with those dashed customs-men always a’ter we. Crimminy! but us’ll take our share ef zo be as theer’s awght to be gotten. I’ve heerd tell theer be a real hollerballoo up tu Pentreath. I be agwaine to see un.” “Zo be I! Zo be I!” echoed in turn a dozen or more voices, and from the dim chimney-corner there only came a rough snort of disapproval. “Go ’long wi’ ye then. When the dowl’s abroad ’twidden be in yer to bide tu home. Go ’long and help make the bobbery wusser. ’Tidden hurt I. But it’ll be a poor-come-along-on’t for some o’ yu, I take it. Theer’ll be trouble at St. Bride along on’t.” The men hesitated for a moment, for the old woman who thus spoke had won the not too enviable reputation of being next door to a witch, and of reading or moulding future events--which, it was not altogether certain in the minds of the people. She was a lonely widow woman, but lived in one of the best cottages in the place, where she kept a sort of private bar, selling spirits and tobacco to the fishermen, and allowing them to make use of her sanded kitchen, where at all seasons of the year a fire was burning, as a place of resort where all the gossip of the place could be discussed. They never put two and two together in seeking to account for the occult knowledge possessed by the old woman respecting the private concerns of the whole community. She affected to be rather deaf, and therefore low-toned conversations were carried on freely in her presence. Old Mother Clat was quite a character in her way, and a distinct power in the fishing community of St. Bride.