Without the loss of a moment the Cornishmen leapt the bulwarks and scampered along the jetty. They were half-way to the inn before the careless sentinels in the parlour heard their footsteps and ran out to see what was happening. Forming in front of the door, they brought their muskets to the shoulder and delivered a scattered volley; but surprise, haste, and strong liquor combined to spoil their aim, and none of the fishers was hit except Simon Mail, who dropped his spike with a yell and sat down on the cobbles, _hors de combat_. The Frenchmen had no time either to reload or to retreat. The fishers, burly men all, charged straight at them and struck four to the ground, the other two taking to their heels and starting to run up the hill towards their leader. But as if by magic the neighbourhood of the inn was suddenly alive with figures. The fishermen and miners, who had remained hitherto cowering in their cottages, rushed out the moment they could do so safely. The fugitives were caught and held; a fierce crowd surrounded the others; and in a few minutes all six, bruised and battered, lay in a row against the inn wall. Meanwhile Tonkin had dashed into the inn, pulled up the trap-door leading to the cellar, and descended into the depths. Doubledick, whom the sound of shots had caused to shake like a jelly, heard the heavy clump of the fisher’s boots, and shrank behind a large tun in a corner of the cellar. Unaware of his presence, Tonkin hastened to the opposite corner, where, in a cunningly contrived recess, lay a store of firearms and ammunition, kept there for use against the King’s officers when required. It was now to be turned to a more legitimate purpose. Tonkin seized as many muskets as he could carry, and hurried with them up the ladder, sending down for more those of his men who were not occupied with the Frenchmen. By the time these latter were secured, arms had been served out to the fishers who had escaped from the lugger, and to the most likely of the others. Then a compact body of thirty well-armed men followed Tonkin up the hill. In order to trace clearly the course of events in that crowded hour of Polkerran’s history, it becomes necessary to glance at what had happened at the Dower House. John Trevanion had become so accustomed to the smuggling operations, and it was so much a part of his policy to keep himself in the background in these matters, that it did not occur to him to rise early in order to learn what luck had attended the run which he had expected to take place at the creek, during the night or in the small hours of that morning. Having a perfectly easy conscience, and the comfortable expectation that he would be richer by two hundred pounds when he awoke, he slept as placidly as a child, and did not become aware that anything unusual was occurring until a repeated rapping at the door by Susan Berry, startled out of her wits, at length penetrated his slumbering intelligence.