When a mixed crowd of fishers, farmers, and miners entered the taproom of the Three Jolly Mariners, they found Joe Penwarden comfortably settled in the place nearest the fire. As an excise-man, he had never frequented the smugglers’ haunt at the Five Pilchards, but occasionally dropped in for a glass at the other inn. Observing Tonkin, Pendry, and a dozen more free-traders among the newcomers, he shook the ashes out of his church-warden, gulped down his grog, and rose to go. It was against the rules of the service to consort with smugglers, known or suspected. "Bide where ye be, Maister," said Tonkin, heartily. "’Tis peace and goodwill to-day, and though some may hate ’ee like a toad o’ common days, we’ll treat ’ee like a true Christian to-day; what do ’ee say, neighbours all?" "Ay, Maister," said Pendry, "set ’ee down and hark to the noble history we’ve got to tell ’ee. ’Tis rum-hot all round—eh, souls?" They pressed Penwarden into his chair, and, all speaking together, poured into his ears the story of the great discovery. "Well," he said presently, "’tis the noblest Christmas box as ever man got in this weary world." "Iss, sure," said Petherick, adding in his ecclesiastical manner, "’Tis ’My soul doth magnify’ for Squire and parish too, I don’t care who the man is." "True," said Penwarden, "and little small fellers like we must gie them above the credit o’t. Theer be doin’s in high parts as we cannot make head or tail of. Squire’s cousin comes here, a right-down villain, a-deceivin’ high and low from Sir Bevil himself down to small fry like ’ee." "That no man can deny," said Tonkin. "And yet," pursued Penwarden, enjoying his unaccustomed _rôle_ as oracle,—"and yet, if he hadn’ a-come, theer’d ’a been no Frenchy poking his nose in Polkerran, and no call for Maister Dick to shift a stone that has held to the same moorings maybe since the beginnin’ o’ the world. Ay, the Almighty do say a word sometimes to us miserable worms." The old man’s solemnity caused a hush to fall on the assembly. For some moments no one spoke. The room filled with clouds of smoke. Then Penwarden took his pipe from his mouth, and, in a different tone, said: "It minds me o’ Lord Admiral Rodney." "What do mind ’ee of him, Maister?" asked Simon Mail, whose arm was in a sling. "Why, a high person speakin’ to a low. Did ’ee never hear how the Lord Admiral once upon a time spoke special to me?" "Never in life, Maister," said Mail. "Spet out the story for the good of us all."