Eli leaned against the settle, listening and looking at Ortho. He was evidently in the highest spirits, but he had not the appearance of a man with five hundred pounds in his possession. He wore the same suit of clothes in which he had departed and it was in an advanced state of dilapidation; the braid edging hung in strings, one elbow was barbarously patched with a square of sail-cloth and the other was out altogether. His high wool stockings were a mere network and his boots lamentable. However that was no criterion; gypsying was a rough life and it would be foolish to spoil good clothes on it. Ortho himself looked worn and thin; he had a nasty, livid cut running the length of his right cheek bone and the gesticulating palms were raw with open blisters, but his gay laugh rang through the kitchen, melodious, inspiring. He bore the air of success; all was well, doubtless. Eli fell to making calculations. Ortho had five hundred pounds, Teresa still had a hundred; that made six. Ortho would require a hundred as capital for next year, and then, if he could repeat his success, they would be out of the trap. He felt a rush of affection for his brother, ragged and worn from his gallant battle with the world—and all for his sake. Tregors mattered comparatively little to Ortho, since he was giving it up and was fully provided for with Bosula. Ortho’s generosity overwhelmed him. There was nobody like Ortho. The gentleman in question finished an anecdote with a clap of laughter, sprang to his feet, pinned his temporarily doting mother in her chair and kissed her, twitched Martha’s bonnet strings loose, punched Bohenna playfully in the chest, caught Eli by the arm and swung him into the yard. “Come across to the stable, my old dear; I’ve got something to show you.” “Horse?” “Lord, no! I’ve got no horse. Walked from Padstow.” “You!—walked!” “Yes, heel and toe . . . two days. God, my feet are sore!” “How did you come to get to Padstow?” “Collier brig from Cardiff. Had to work my passage at that; my hands are like raw meat from hauling on those damned braces—look! Slept in a cow-shed at Illogan last night and milked the cows for breakfast. I’ll warrant the farmer wondered why they were dry this morning—ha, ha! Never mind, that’s all over. What do you think of this?” He reached inside the stable door and brought out a new fowling piece. “Bought this for you in Gloucester,” said he; “thought of you the minute I saw it. It’s pounds lighter than father’s old blunderbuss, and look here . . . this catch holds the priming and keeps it dry; pull the trigger, down comes the hammer, knocks the catch up and bang! See? Clever, ain’t it? Take hold.” Eli took hold of the gun like a man in a dream. Beautiful weapon though it was, he did not even look at it. “But why . . . why did you work your passage?” he asked. “Because they wouldn’t carry me for nothing, wood-head.” “Were you trying to save money?” “Eh?—er—ye-es.”