In the early part of October, 1827, the writer, then a boy at Bodmin school, was asked by the master if any particular news had come from home. Scarcely had the curiosity of the boys subsided, when a tall man with a broad-brimmed Leghorn hat on his head entered at the door, and after a quick glance at his whereabouts, marched towards the master's desk at the other end of the room. When about half-way, and opposite the writer's class, he stopped, took his hat off, and asked if his son Francis was there. Mr. Boar, who had watched his approach, rose at the removal of the hat, and replied in the affirmative. For a moment a breathless silence reigned in the school, while all eyes were turned on the gaunt sun-burnt visitor; and the blood, without a defined reason, caused the writer's heart to beat as though the unknown was his father, who eleven years before had carried him on his shoulder to the pier-head steps, and the boat going to the South Sea whaler. During the next six months father and son sat together daily, the one drawing new schemes and calculations, the other observing, and learning, and calculating the weight and size and speed of a poor swallow he had shot, that the proportions of wings necessary to carry a man's weight might be known. In these calculations cube roots of quantities were extracted, which did not accurately agree with Trevithick's figures, who, asking for explanations, received a rehearsal, word for word, of the school-book rule for such extractions, which threw no more light on his understanding than did his own self-made rule on the writer's comprehension, though both methods produced nearly the same result. Within a month of that time he heard of the arrival in England of Mr. Gerard, his companion in travel, from whom he had separated at Carthagena. "MY DEAR GOOD SIR, "HAYLE FOUNDRY, _15th November, 1827_.