Mary’s eyebrows rose. “What do ’e mean, ‘whimsy tricks’? I do serve en a fitty supper nigh every evening of his life and listen to his tales till . . .” “Oh, you know what I mean well enough,” Teresa roared. “Are ’e goin’ to have him? That’s what I want to know.” “Have who?” “My son.” “Which son?” The two women faced each other for a moment, the black eyes wide with surprise, the brown sparkling with amusement; then Mary dropped a quick curtsey and disappeared round the corner. Teresa sat still for some minutes glaring after her, mouth sagging with astonishment. Then she cursed sharply; then she laughed aloud; then, catching her horse a vicious smack with the rein, she rode on. The feather-headed fool preferred Eli to Ortho! Preferred that slow-brained hunk of brawn and solemnity to Ortho, the handsome, the brilliant, the daring, the sum of manly virtues! It was too funny, too utterly ridiculous! Eli, the clod, preferred to Ortho, the diamond! The girl was raving mad, raving! Eli had visited Roswarva a good deal at one time, but not since Ortho’s return. Teresa hoped the girl was aware that Ortho was absolute owner of Bosula and that Eli had not a penny to his name—now. If she were not, Teresa determined she should not long go in ignorance. At any rate, it could only be a question of time. Mary might still have some friendly feeling for Eli, but once she really began to know Ortho she would forget all about that. Half the women in the country would give their heads to get the romantic squire of Bosula; they went sighing after him in troops at fairs and public occasions. Yet something in the Penaluna girl’s firm jaw and steady brown eyes told Teresa that she was not easily swayed hither and thither. She wished she could get Eli out of the way for a bit. She rode over the hill and down the steep lane into Mousehole, and there found an unwonted stir afoot. The village was full of seamen armed with bludgeons and cutlasses, running up and down the narrow alleys in small parties, kicking the doors in and searching the houses. The fisherwomen hung out of their windows and flung jeers and slops at them. “Press gang,” Teresa was informed. They had landed from a frigate anchored just round the corner in Gwavas Lake and had so far caught one sound man, one epileptic and the village idiot, who was vastly pleased at having some one take notice of him at last. A boy line fishing off Tavis Vov had seen the gang rowing in, given the alarm, and by the time the sailors arrived all the men were a quarter of a mile inland. Very amusing, eh? Teresa agreed that it was indeed most humorous, and added her shrewd taunts to those of the fishwives. Then an idea sprang to her head. She went into the tavern and drank a pot of ale while thinking it over. When the smallest detail was complete she set out to find the officer in command.