It was all the more vexatious to reflect that the man through whom the trouble (whatever it might be) was impending, was the last one in the world from whom any trouble might reasonably be looked for. This was probably the first time in his life that he had reached any prominence in the little circle in which he lived. To be allowed to remain in the background, seemed to be his sole aspiration. His fear of giving offence to anyone seemed to be ever present with him, and his chief anxiety was to anticipate an imaginary offence by an apology. How a man who was so ludicrously invertebrate should become a menace to the stability of a community that included such robust men as the miller, the carrier, and the smith, to say nothing of Farmer Tregenna and Mr. Hartwell, the mine owner, was more than Wesley could understand. It was this element of mystery that caused him to fear that Pritchard had all along been an agent of the Enemy--that his noted successes with the divining rod were due to his connection with the Powers of Darkness, and that his getting within the fold of the faithful was, after all, only what might have been expected from one whose tactics were devised for him by the Old Serpent--the origin of every evil since the expulsion from Paradise. CHAPTER X He spent an hour at the Old Waggoner Inn at the corner of the River Road, and while his horse was getting a feed in the stable he had some bread and cheese in the inn parlour--a large room built to accommodate the hungry coach passengers, who, accustomed to break their journey to or from Plymouth, were at this house. The room was not crowded when he arrived, but in the course of the next half-hour two additional parties entered, and while tankards were filled and emptied, and pewter platters of underdone beef laden with pickles were passed round, there was a good deal of loud talk, with laughter and an interchange of friendly, if rude, humour. Wesley had had a sufficient experience of inn parlours to prevent his being greatly interested by the people here or their loud chat. This was only at first, however, for it soon became clear to him that the conversation and the jests were flowing in one channel. Then he became interested. “Come hither, friend Thomas, and pay all scores,” cried one jovial young fellow to an elderly stout farmer who had been standing in the bar. “Not me, lad,” cried the farmer. “By the Lord Harry, you've the 'impidence'!”. “What, man, pay and look joyous. What will all your hoard of guineas be to you after Monday?” cried the younger man. “'Twill be worth twenty-one shillings for every guinea, if you must know,” replied the farmer. “Nay, sir, you know well that there will be no use for your guineas at the Day of Judgment, which, as surely as Dick Pritchard is a prophet, will happen on Monday,” said the other.