Brinkley explained that the “cart” in question had been in his possession only a few months. “But I travelled a good deal before I got it,” he explained. “This time last year I was in Ireland.” “In Ireland, master?” “Yes, on the west coast; do you know it?” William Jones shook his head. “There be plenty wreck there, ain’t there?” said he suddenly. “Wreck?” repeated Brinkley. “Yes, I’ve heard tell o’ wonderful storms and big ships breaking up. Look ye, now, they do tell wonderful stories; and I wonder sometimes if all they says be true.” Brinkley looked at his host for a minute or so in silent wonder, for the little man was transformed. Instead of gazing about him with the stupid expression which up till now his face had worn, his face expressed all the keenness of a foxhound well on the scent. There was also another curious thing which the young man noticed, that the word “wreck” seemed to act like magic on the other member of the Jones’ household. At the first mention of it the old man started from his sleep; and he now sat staring wildly before him, evidently imagining he was standing on a headland, gazing out to sea. “Wreck!” he murmured; “ay, there it be, driftin’ in wi’ the wind and the tide, William; driftin’ in wi’ the tide.” “Shut up, old man,” said William, giving his father a nudge; then turning again to Brinkley, he said, “Be them tales true, master?” “Eh?--Oh yes; perfectly true,” said Brinkley, being in a lively humour, and determined to give his host a treat. The expression in the eyes of William Jones became even more greedy. “P’raps,” he said, “you’ve seen some of them wrecks.” “Dear me, yes,” answered Brinkley, determined to give the reins to his imagination. “I’ve seen any number of them. Huge ships broken up like match-boxes, and every soul on board them drowned; then afterwards----” “Ah yes, master,” said William Jones eagerly as the other paused; “arter----” “Well, afterwards, my friend, I’ve seen treasures come ashore that would have made you and me, and a dozen others such, men for life.” “Dear, dear! and what became of it, master--tell me that?” “What became of it?” repeated Brinkley, whose imagination was beginning to give way; “why, it was appropriated, of course, by the population.” “And didn’t you take your share, master?” “I?” repeated Brinkley, who was getting muddled; “well, firstly, because I didn’t wish to--I have a superstitious horror of wearing dead men’s things; and secondly, because I could not have done so had I wished. The people are clannish; they wanted it all for themselves, and would have killed any interfering stranger.” “I suppose, master, there be no coastguard chaps _there?_” said William Jones. “Oh dear, no! No coastguards.”