"And ten is three-and-six. . . . An eye lifting, certainly," assented Mr. Pennefather, without, however, immediately acting on this advice. "There's that fellow Hymen, now, next door. He's not altogether the ass he looks, or my name's not Smellie." "But it is, surely?" Mr. Pennefather looked up in innocent surprise. "And you really think it justifies calling in the Dragoons?" "On the face of it, no; I've no evidence. And yet, I repeat, there's some mischief afoot. This new game of Hymen's, for instance--Before coming down to these parts"--Mr. Smellie threw a fine condescension into this phrase--"I should have thought it impossible that anyone in the shape of a man, let alone of a Major of Artillery, could solemnly propose to test a neighbouring corps by a night attack, and then as solemnly give warning on what night he meant to deliver it." Mr. Pennefather took off his spectacles and polished them with his silk handkerchief. "But without that precaution he would find nobody to attack." "I tell you, it's absurd! And yet," the Riding Officer went on irritably, "if one could count on its being absurd, I wouldn't mind. But there's just a chance that, with all this foolery, Hymen and Pond are covering up a little game. Why have they chosen Talland Cove, now?" "I suppose because, for a night attack on Looe, there's no better spot." "Nor for running a cargo. I tell you, I shall keep the Dragoons on the alert." "You don't suggest that you suspect--" "Suspect? I suspect everybody. It's the rule of the service; and by following it I've reached the position I hold to-day." "True." The Collector readjusted his spectacles and returned to his figures. There may have been just a hint of condolence in his accent, for the Riding Officer looked up sharply. "If you lived in the north, Pennefather, do you know what we should say about you? We should say that you were no very gleg in the uptake." "I once," answered the Collector, gently, without lifting his head from the ledger, "began to read Burns, but had to give him up on account of the dialect." Meanwhile, all unaware of these dark suspicions, the Major and his Gallants were perfecting their preparations for the great surprise. And what preparations! In the heat of them we had almost forgotten the Millennium itself! For weeks the band had been practising a selection of tunes appropriate (1) to invasions in general and (2) to this particular invasion. There was "Britons, Strike Home!" for instance, and "The Padstow Hobby-horse," and "The Rout it is out for the Blues," slightly amended for the occasion: "As I was a-walking on Downderry sands, Some dainty fine sport for to view, The maidens were wailing and wringing their hands-- Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes, For the Looes, Oh, the Rout it is out for the Looes."