"’Tis the biggest haul you’ve ever made, isn’t it?" asked Dick. "We’ve got more tubs afore, but never so many men. I’m a deal more cheerful in my mind than I used to be. We are doing the King’s work better in these parts than ’twas done in Mr. Curgenven’s time, and I hope them above will remember it." Dick went on. He was pleased for the old man’s sake that he was so well succeeding in his duty; but at the same time was full of misgiving as to the hatred his energy would breed among the village folk. When he returned later in the day from a vain quest for the choughs, Sam Pollex told him that the village was seething with rage, and everybody was asking what had become of Doubledick. He was not among the nine men who had been carted to Plymouth; search had been made for his dead body on the shore; it was known that he had been among the tub-carriers, but nobody had seen him since the fight. The mystery was solved at nightfall. The inn-keeper, dressed as a peaceable fisherman, trudged into the village with a fat goose on his back, and declared with a wink that he had been on a short visit to his friend Farmer Nancarrow, five miles distant. His cronies knew that Doubledick had adopted this course as a blind to the revenue officers if they made an inquisitive visit to his inn. However strong their suspicions, they could not proceed against him with any chance of success. They were in the same difficulty in regard to Tonkin, whom none could swear to, his face having been blackened. Nor could it be proved even that it was his lugger which had brought the cargo. When the _Isaac and Jacob_ came into the harbour next day and was boarded by the revenue officers, it contained nothing but a few hundredweight of fish; and though grappling operations were conducted in St. Cuby’s Cove, and for some distance on each side of it, no discovery of sunken tubs was made. It was a fact, often remarked on in after days by the Polkerran folk, that the only spectator on the jetty when Tonkin’s lugger put in—exclusive of the revenue officers, a toothless old fisher, Ike Pendry’s sweetheart, and a handful of children—was Mr. John Trevanion. He seemed to be in the top of good humour; joked with Mr. Mildmay, gave the old fisher a plug of tobacco, favoured Marty Bream with an admiring glance, and chucked the children under the chin. When the lieutenant’s examination was concluded, and Tonkin came ashore, a free man, but under suspicion, Mr. Trevanion had a word for him too, asked to see his catch, and bought some of the finest of the fish. Then with a nod to Mr. Mildmay he strolled with easy gait up the hill.