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 Name:_______________________ CSCI 2490 C++ Programming
Armstrong Atlantic State University
(50 minutes) Instructor: Dr. Y. Daniel Liang

(Open book test, you can only bring the textbook)

Part I: Multiple Choice Questions:

1
12 quizzes for Chapter 7
1 If you declare an array double list[] = {3.4, 2.0, 3.5, 5.5}, list[1] is ________.

A. 3.4
B. undefined
C. 2.0
D. 5.5
E. 3.4
2 Are the following two declarations the same

char city[8] = "Dallas";

char city[] = "Dallas";

A. no
B. yes
3 Given the following two arrays:

char s1[] = {'a', 'b', 'c'};

char s2[] = "abc";

Which of the following statements is correct?

A. s2 has four characters

B. s1 has three characters
C. s1 has four characters
D. s2 has three characters
4 When you pass an array to a function, the function receives __________.

A. the length of the array

B. a copy of the array
C. the reference of the array
D. a copy of the first element
5 Are the following two declarations the same

char city[] = {'D', 'a', 'l', 'l', 'a', 's'};

char city[] = "Dallas";

1
A. yes
B. no
6 Suppose char city[7] = "Dallas"; what is the output of the following statement?

cout << city;

A. Dallas0
B. nothing printed
C. D
D. Dallas
7 Which of the following is incorrect?

A. int a(2);
B. int a[];
C. int a = new int[2];
D. int a() = new int[2];
E. int a[2];
8 Analyze the following code:

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

void reverse(int list[], const int size, int newList[])

{
for (int i = 0; i < size; i++)
newList[i] = list[size - 1 - i];
}

int main()
{
int list[] = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5};
int newList[5];

reverse(list, 5, newList);
for (int i = 0; i < 5; i++)
cout << newList[i] << " ";
}

A. The program displays 1 2 3 4 5 and then raises an ArrayIndexOutOfBoundsException.

B. The program displays 1 2 3 4 6.
C. The program displays 5 4 3 2 1.
D. The program displays 5 4 3 2 1 and then raises an ArrayIndexOutOfBoundsException.
9 (Tricky) What is the output of the following code:

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

2
 int main()
{
int x[] = {120, 200, 16};
for (int i = 0; i < 3; i++)
cout << x[i] << " ";
}

A. 200 120 16
B. 16 120 200
C. 120 200 16
D. 16 200 120
10 Which of the following statements is valid?

A. int i(30);
B. int i[4] = {3, 4, 3, 2};
C. int i[] = {3, 4, 3, 2};
D. double d[30];
E. int[] i = {3, 4, 3, 2};
11 Which of the following statements are true?

A. The array elements are initialized when an array is created.

B. The array size is fixed after it is created.
C. Every element in an array has the same type.
D. The array size used to declare an array must be a constant expression.
12 How many elements are in array double list[5]?

A. 5
B. 6
C. 0
D. 4

3 quizzes for Chapter 8

13 Which of the following function declaration is correct?

A. int f(int a[3][], int rowSize);

B. int f(int a[][], int rowSize, int columnSize);
C. int f(int a[][3], int rowSize);
D. int f(int[][] a, int rowSize, int columnSize);
14 What is the output of the following code?

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

3
 int main()
{
int matrix[4][4] =
{{1, 2, 3, 4},
{4, 5, 6, 7},
{8, 9, 10, 11},
{12, 13, 14, 15}};

int sum = 0;

for (int i = 0; i < 4; i++)

cout << matrix[i][1] << " ";

return 0;
}

A. 3 6 10 14
B. 1 3 8 12
C. 1 2 3 4
D. 4 5 6 7
E. 2 5 9 13
15
Which of the following statements are correct?

A. char charArray[2][2] = {{'a', 'b'}, {'c', 'd'}};

B. char charArray[][] = {{'a', 'b'}, {'c', 'd'}};
C. char charArray[][] = {'a', 'b'};
D. char charArray[2][] = {{'a', 'b'}, {'c', 'd'}};
Part II: Show the printout of the following code:

a. (2 pts)
#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

void swap(int n1, int n2)

{
int temp = n1;
n1 = n2;
n2 = temp;
}

int main()
{
int a[] = {1, 2};
swap(a[0], a[1]);
cout << "a[0] = " << a[0] << " a[1] = " << a[1] << endl;

return 0;
}

4
b. (2 pts)
#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

void swap(int a[])

{
int temp = a[0];
a[0] = a[1];
a[1] = temp;
}

int main()
{
int a[] = {1, 2};
swap(a);
cout << "a[0] = " << a[0] << " a[1] = " << a[1] << endl;

return 0;
}

c. (4 pts) Given the following program, show the values of the array
in the following figure:

#include <iostream>
using namespace std;

int main()
{
int values[5];
for (int i = 1; i < 5; i++)
{
values[i] = i;
}

values[0] = values[1] + values[4];

return 0;
}

5
 After the last statement
After the array is After the first iteration After the loop is in the main method is
created in the loop is done completed executed

0 0 0 0

1 1 1 1

2 2 2 2

3 3 3 3

4 4 4 4

Part III:

Part III:

1. Write a function that finds the smallest element in an

array of integers using the following header:
double min(double array[], int size)

Write a test program that prompts the user to enter ten

numbers, invokes this function, and displays the minimum
value. Here is the sample run of the program:

<Output>

Enter ten numbers: 1.9 2.5 3.7 2 1.5 6 3 4 5 2

The minimum number is: 1.5

<End Output>

2. Write a function that counts the number of letters in

the string using the following header:
int countLetters(const char s[])

6
Write a test program that reads a C-string and displays the number of
letters in the string. Here is a sample run of the program:

<Output>

Enter a string: 2010 is coming

The number of letters in 2010 is coming is 8

<End Output>

7
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 Ortho was up at dawn, ready to go into town, but Teresa, whose
recuperative powers were little short of marvelous, was up before
him and went in herself. She found nothing on the road and got
small consolation from the magistrates.
People who mixed their drinks and their company when in
possession of large sums of ready money should not complain if they
lost it. She ought to be thankful she had not been relieved of the lot.
They would make inquiries, of course, but held out no hope. There
was an officer with a string of recruits in town, an Irish privateer and
two foreign ships in the port, to say nothing of the Guernsey
smugglers—the place was seething with covetous and desperate
characters. They wagged their wigs and doubted if she would ever
see her money again.
She never did.
 CHAPTER XIII
Some three weeks after Teresa’s loss Eli found his brother in the
yard fitting a fork-head to a new haft.
“Saw William John Prowse up to Church-town,” said he. “He told
me to tell you that you must take the two horses over to once
because he’s got to go away.”
Ortho frowned. Under his breath he consigned William John
Prowse to eternal discomfort. Then his face cleared.
“I’ve been buying a horse or two for Pyramus,” he remarked
casually. “He’ll be down along next week.”
Eli gave him a curious glance. Ortho looked up and their eyes
met.
“What’s the matter?”
“It was you stole that hundred pounds from mother, I suppose.”
Ortho started and then stared. “Me! My Lord, what next! Me steal
that . . . well, I be damned! Think I’d turn toby and rob my own
family, do you? Pick my right pocket to fill my left? God’s wrath,
you’re a sweet brother!”
“I do think so, anyhow,” said Eli doggedly.
“How? Why?”
“ ’Cos King Herne can do his own buying and because on the
night mother was robbed you were out.”
Ortho laughed again. “Smart as a gauger, aren’t you? Well, now
I’ll tell you. William John let me have the horses on trust, and as for
being out, I’m out most every night. I’d been to Churchtown. I’ve
got a sweetheart there, if you must know. So now, young clever!”
Eli shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
 “Don’t you believe me?” Ortho called.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cos ’tis well known William John Prowse wouldn’t trust his
father with a turnip, and that Polly mare hadn’t brought you two
miles from Gwithian. She’d come three times that distance and hard.
She was as wet as an eel; I felt her.”
Ortho bit his lip. “So ho, steady!” he called softly. “Come round
here a minute.”
He led the way round the corner of the barn and Eli followed.
Ortho leaned against the wall, all smiles again.
“See here, old son,” said he in a whisper, “you’re right. I did it.
But I did it for you, for your sake, mind that.”
“Me!”
Ortho nodded. “Surely. Look you, in less than two years Tregors
and this here place fall to me, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said Eli.
Ortho tapped him on the chest. “Well, the minute I get
possession I’m going to give you Tregors, lock, stock and barrel.
That’s the way father meant it, I take it—only he didn’t have time to
put it in writing. But now Tregors is in the bag, and how are we
going to get it out if mother will play chuck-guinea like she does?”
“So that’s why you stole the money?”
“That’s why—and, harkee, don’t shout ‘stole’ so loud. It ain’t
stealing to take your own, is it?” Ortho whistled. “My Lord, I
sweated, Eli! I thought some one would have it before I did. The
whole of Penzance knew she’d been about town all day with a bag
of money, squaring her debts and lashing it about. To finish up she
was in a room at the ‘Star’ with a dozen of bucks, all of ’em three
sheets in the wind and roaring. I seen them through a chink in the
shutters and I tell you I sweated blood. But she’s cunning. When she
sat down she sat on the wallet and stopped there. It would have
taken a block and tackle to pull her off. I went into the ‘Star’ passage
all muffled up about the face like as if I had jaw-ache. The pot boy
came along with a round of drinks for the crowd inside. ‘Here, drop
those a minute and fetch me a dash of brandy for God Almighty’s
sake,’ says I, mumbling and talking like an up-countryman. ‘I’m torn
to pieces with this tooth. Here’s a silver shilling and you can keep
the change if you’re quick. Oh, whew! Ouch!’
“I tossed him the shilling—the last I’d got—and he dropped the
pots there and then and dived after the brandy. I gave the pots a
good dusting with a powder Pyramus uses on rogue horses to keep
’em quiet while he’s selling ’em. Then the boy came back. I drank
the brandy and went outside again and kept watch through the
shutters. It worked pretty quick; what with the mixed drinks they’d
had and the powder, the whole crew was stretched snoring in a
quarter hour. But not she. She’s as strong as a yoke of bulls. She
yawned a bit, but when the others went down she got up and went
after her horse, taking the wallet along. I watched her mount from
behind the rain barrel in the yard and a pretty job she made of it.
The ostler had to heave her up, and the first time she went clean
over, up one side and down t’other. Second time she saved herself
by clawing the ostler’s hair and near clawed his scalp off; he
screeched like a slit pig.
“I watched that ostler as well, watched in case he might chance
his fingers in the wallet, but he didn’t. She was still half awake and
would have brained him if he’d tried it on. A couple of men—
stranded seamen, I think—came out of an alley by the Abbey and
dogged her as far as Lariggan, closing up all the time, but when they
saw me behind they gave over and hid in under the river bank. She
kept awake through Newlyn, nodding double. I knew she couldn’t
last much longer—the wonder was she had lasted so long. On top of
Paul Hill I closed up as near as I dared and then went round her,
across country as hard as I could flog, by Chyoone and Rosvale.
 “A dirty ride, boy; black as pitch and crossed with banks and soft
bottoms. Polly fell down and threw me over her head twice . . .
thought my neck was broke. We came out on the road again at
Trevelloe. I tied Polly to a tree and walked back to meet ’em. They
came along at a walk, the old horse bringing his cargo home like
he’s done scores of times.
“I called his name softly and stepped out of the bushes. He
stopped, quiet as a lamb. Mother never moved; she was dead gone,
but glued to the saddle. She’s a wonder. I got the wallet open, put
my hand in and had just grabbed hold of a bag when Prince
whinnied; he’d winded his mate, Polly, down the road. You know
how it is when a horse whinnies; he shakes all through. Hey, but it
gave me a start! It was a still night and the old brute sounded like a
squad of trumpets shouting ‘Ha!’ like they do in the Bible. ‘Ha, ha,
ha, he, he, he!’
“I jumped back my own length and mother lolled over towards
me and said soft-like, ‘Pass the can around.’ ”
“That’s part of a song she sings,” said Eli, “a drinking song.”
Ortho nodded. “I know, but it made me jump when she said it;
she said it so soft-like. I thought the horse had shaken her awake,
and I ran for dear life. Before I’d gone fifty yards I knew I was
running for nothing, but I couldn’t go back. It was the first time I’d
sto . . . I’d done anything like that and I was scared of Prince
whinnying again. I ran down the road with the old horse coming
along clop-clop behind me, jumped on Polly and galloped home
without looking back. I wasn’t long in before her as it was.” He drew
a deep breath. “But I kept the bag and I’ve got it buried where she
won’t find it.” He smiled at his own cleverness.
“What are you going to do with the money?” Eli asked.
“Buy horses cheap and sell ’em dear. I learnt a trick or two when
I was away with Pyramus and I’m going to use ’em. There’s nothing
like it. I’ve seen him buy a nag for a pound and sell it for ten next
week. I’m going to make Pyramus take my horses along with his.
They’ll be bought as his, so that people won’t wonder where I got
the money, and they’ll go up-country and be sold with his—see? I’ve
got it all thought out.”
“But will Pyramus do it?”
Ortho clicked his even white teeth. “Aye, I reckon he will . . . if
he wants to winter here again. How many two-pound horses can I
buy for a hundred pounds?”
“Fifty.”
“And fifty sold at ten pounds each, how much is that?”
“Five hundred pounds.”
“How long will it take me to pay off the mortgage at that rate?”
“Two years . . . at that rate. But there’s the interest too, and . . .”
Ortho smote him on the back. “Oh, cheerily, old long-face, all’s
well! The rent’ll pay the interest, as thou thyself sayest, and I’ll fetch
in the money somehow. We’ll harvest a mighty crop next season and
the horses’ll pay bags full. In two years’ time I’ll put my boot under
that fat cheese-weevil Carveth and you shall ride into Tregors like a
king. If only I could have got hold of that second hundred! You don’t
know where mother hides her money, do you?”
“No.”
“No more do I . . . but I will. I’ll sit over her like a puss at a
mouse hole. I’ll have some more of it yet.”
“Leave it alone,” said Eli; “she’s sure to find out and then there’ll
be the devil to pay. Besides, whatever you say about it being our
money it don’t seem right. Leave it be.”
Ortho threw an arm about his neck and laughed at him.

Pyramus Herne arrived on New Year’s Eve and was not best
pleased when Ortho announced his project. He had no wish to be
bothered with extra horses that brought no direct profit to himself,
but he speedily recognized that he had a new host to deal with, that
young Penhale had cut his wisdom teeth and that if he wanted the
run of the Upper Keigwin Valley he’d have to pay for it. So he smiled
his flashing smile and consented, on the understanding that he
accepted no responsibility for any mishap and that Ortho found his
own custom. The boy agreed to this and set about buying.
He picked up a horse here and there, but mainly he bought
broken-down pack mules from the mines round St. Just. He bought
wisely. His purchases were a ragged lot, yet never so ragged but
that they could be patched up. When not out looking for mules he
spent practically all his time in the gypsy camp, firing, blistering,
trimming misshapen hoofs, shotting roarers, filing and bishoping
teeth. The farm hardly saw him; Eli and Bohenna put the seed in.
Pyramus left with February, driving the biggest herd he had ever
taken north. This, of course, included Ortho’s lot, but the boy had
not got fifty beasts for his hundred pounds—he had got thirty-three
only—but he was still certain of making his four hundred per cent,
he told Eli; mules were in demand, being hardy, long-lived and
frugal, and his string were in fine fettle. With a few finishing
touches, their blemishes stained out, a touch of the clippers here
and there, a pinch of ginger to give them life, some grooming and a
sleek over with an oil rag, there would be no holding the public back
from them. He would be home for harvest, his pockets dribbling
gold.
He went one morning before dawn without telling Teresa he was
going, jingled out of the yard, dressed in his best, astride one of
Pyramus’ showiest colts. His tirade against gypsy life and his eulogy
of the delights of home, delivered to Eli on his return from his first
trip with Pyramus, had been perfectly honest. He had had a rough
experience and was played out.
But he was tired no longer. He rode to join Pyramus, singing the
Helston Flurry Song:
 “Where are those Span-i-ards
That made so brave a boast—O?
They shall eat the gray goose feather
And we will eat the roast—O.”
Eli, leaning over the gate, listened to the gay voice dwindling
away up the valley, and then turned with a sigh.
Dawn was breaking, the mists were rolling up, the hills loomed
gigantic in the half-light, studded with granite escarpments,
patchworked with clumps of gorse, thorn and bracken—his
battlefield.
Ortho had gone again, gone singing to try his fortune in the
great world among foreign multitudes. For him the dour grapple with
the wilderness—and he was glad of it. He disliked foreigners, disliked
taking chances. Here was something definite, something to lock his
teeth in, something to be subdued by sheer dogged tenacity. He
broke the news that Ortho had gone gypsying again that evening at
supper.
Teresa exploded like a charge of gun-powder. She announced her
intention of starting after her son at once, dragging him home and
having Pyramus arrested for kidnapping. Then she ramped up and
down the kitchen, cursing everybody present for not informing her
of Ortho’s intentions. When they protested that they had been as
ignorant as herself, she damned them for answering her back.
Eli, who came in for most of her abuse, slipped out and over the
hill to Roswarva, had a long farming talk with Penaluna and
borrowed a pamphlet on the prevention of wheat diseases.
The leggy girl Mary sat in a corner sewing by the light of a
pilchard chill and saying never a word. Just before Eli left she
brought him a mug of cider, but beyond drinking the stuff he hardly
noticed the act and even forgot to thank her. He found Teresa sitting
up for him. She had her notched sticks and the two remaining
money bags on the table in front of her. She looked worried.
 “Here,” she growled as her younger son entered. “Count this.” Eli
counted. There was a round hundred pounds in the one bag and
thirty-one pounds, ten shillings and fourpence in the other. He told
her.
“There was fifty,” said she. “How much have I spent then?”
“Eighteen pounds, ten shillings and eightpence.” Eli made a
demonstration on his fingers.
Teresa’s black eyebrows first rose and then crumpled together
ominously.
“Eighteen!” she echoed, and began to tick off items on her own
fingers, mumbling sotto voce. She paused at the ninth finger, racked
her brains for forgotten expenditures and began the count over
again.
Eli sat down before the hearth and pulled his boots off. He could
feel his mother’s suspicious eyes on him. Twice she cleared her
throat as if to speak, but thought better of it. He went to bed,
leaving her still bent over the table twiddling her notched stick. Her
eyes followed him up the stairs, perplexed, angry, with a hot gleam
in them like a spark in coal.
So Ortho had found her hiding place after all and had robbed her
so cleverly that she was not perfectly sure she had been robbed. Eli
tumbled into bed wishing his brother were not quite so clever. He fell
asleep and had a dream in which he saw Ortho hanging in chains
which creaked as they swung in the night winds.
Scared by the loss of her money, Teresa had another attack of
extravagant economy during which the Tregors lease fell in. She
promptly put up the rent; the old tenant refused to carry on and a
new one had to be found. An unknown hind from Budock Water,
near Falmouth, accepted the terms.
Teresa congratulated herself on a bright stroke of business and
all went on as before.
 Eli and Bohenna worked out early and late; the weather could
not have been bettered and the crops promised wonders. Eli,
surveying the propitious fields, was relieved to think Ortho would be
back for harvest, else he did not know how they would get it home.
No word had come from the wanderer. None was expected, but
he was sure to be back for August; he had sworn to be. Ortho was
back on the fourth of July.
Eli came in from work and, to his surprise, found him sitting in
the kitchen relating the story of his adventures. He had a musical
voice, a Gallic trick of gesticulation and no compunction whatever
about laughing at his own jokes. His recital was most vivacious.
Even Teresa guffawed—in spite of herself. She had intended to
haul Master Ortho over an exceedingly hot bed of coals when he
returned, but for the moment she could not bring herself to it. He
had started talking before she could, and his talk was extremely
diverting; she did not want to interrupt it. Moreover, he looked
handsomer than ever—tall, graceful, darkly sparkling. She was proud
of him, her mother sense stirred. He was very like herself.
From hints dropped here and there she guessed he had met with
not a few gallant episodes on his travels and determined to sit up
after the others had gone to bed and get details out of him. They
would make spicy hearing. Such a boy must be irresistible. The more
women he had ruined the better she would be pleased, the greater
the tribute to her offspring. She was a predatory animal herself and
this was her own cub. As for the wigging, that could wait until they
fell out about something else and she was worked up; fly at him in
cold blood she could not, not for the moment.
Ortho jumped out of his chair when Eli entered and embraced
him with great warmth, commented on his growth, thumped the
boy’s deep chest, pinched his biceps and called to Bohenna to
behold the coming champion.
“My Lord, but here’s a chicken that’ll claw the breast feathers out
o’ thee before long, old fighting cock—thee or any other in Devon or
Cornwall—eh, then?”
Bohenna grinned and wagged his grizzled poll.
“Stap me, little brother, I’d best keep a civil tongue before thee,
seem me. Well, as I was saying—”
He sat down and continued his narrative.
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.”
“Have you done as well as you expected, Ortho?”
“N-o, not quite. I’ve had the most damnable luck, old boy.” He
took Eli’s arm. “You never heard of such bad luck in your life—and
none of it my fault. I sold a few mules at first at good prices, but the
money went—a man must eat as he goes, you know—and then
there was that gun; it cost a pretty penny. Then trouble began. I lost
three beasts at Tewkesbury. They got scared in the night. One broke
a shoulder and two went over a quarry. But at Hereford . . . Oh, my
God!”
“What happened?”
“Glanders. They went like flies. Pyramus saw what it was right
off, and we ran for it, south, selling horses to the first bid; that is,
we tried to, but they were too sick and word went faster than we.
The crowd got ugly, swore we’d infected the country and they’d
hang us; they would have, too, if we’d waited. They very nearly had
me, boy, very nearly.”
“Did they mark your face like that?”
“They did, with a lump of slate. And that isn’t all. I’ve got half a
dozen more like it scattered about.” He laughed. “But no matter;
they didn’t get me and I’m safe home again, thank God!”
“And the horses?”
“They killed every one of ’em to stop the infection.”
“Then you haven’t got any money?”
Ortho shook his head. “Not a penny.”
 CHAPTER XIV
Misfortune did not daunt Ortho for long; the promising state of
the home fields put fresh heart in him. He plunged at the work
chanting a pæan in praise of agriculture, tore through obstacles and
swept up his tasks with a speed and thoroughness which left Eli and
Bohenna standing amazed.
The Penhale brothers harvested a record crop that season—but
so did everybody else. The market was glutted and prices negligible.
Except that their own staple needs were provided for, they were no
better off than previously. Eli did not greatly care—he had done what
he had set out to do, bring a good crop home—but Ortho fell into a
state of profound gloom; it was money that he wanted.
It seemed to make little difference in agriculture whether you
harvested a bumper yield or none at all. He had no capital to start in
the second-hand horse trade again—even did he wish to—and he
had no knowledge of any other business. He was on the desperate
point of enlisting in the army on the chance of being sent abroad
and gathering in a little loot, when opportunity rapped loudly on his
door.
He had run down towards Tol-Pedn-Penwith with Jacky’s George
one afternoon in late September. It was a fine afternoon, with a
smooth sea, and all the coves between Merther Point and Carn
Scathe were full of whitebait. They crowded close inshore in dense
shoals, hiding from the mackerel. When the mackerel charged them
they stampeded in panic, frittering the surface like wind-flaws. The
gig’s crew attacked the attackers and did so well that they did not
notice the passage of time.
Jacky’s George came to his senses as the sun slipped under, and
clapped on all sail for home. He appeared in a hurry. By the time
they were abreast of the Camper, the wind, which had been backing
all the afternoon, was a dead-muzzler. Jacky’s George did what he
was seldom known to do; he blasphemed, ported his helm and ran
on a long leg out to sea. By ten o’clock they had leveled Boscawen
Point, but the wind fell away altogether and they were becalmed
three miles out in the Channel. Jacky’s George blasphemed again
and ordered oars out. The gig was heavy and the tide against them.
It took Ortho and three young Baragwanaths an hour and a half to
open Monks Cove.
Ortho could not see the reason of it, of wrenching one’s arms
out, when in an hour or two the tide would carry them in. However,
he knew better than to question Jacky’s George’s orders. Even when
Monks Cove was reached the little man did not go in, but pointed
across for Black Carn. As they paddled under the lee of the cape
there came a peculiar whistle from the gloom ahead, to which the
bow-oar responded, and Ortho made out a boat riding to a kedge.
They pulled alongside and made fast. It was the second
Baragwanath gig, with the eldest son, Anson, and the remainder of
the brothers aboard.
“Who’s that you got wid ’e?” came the hushed voice of Anson.
“Ortho Penhale,” his father replied. “Hadn’t time to put en ashore
—becalmed way out. Has a showed up yet?”
“Naw, a’s late.”
“Ess. Wind’s felled away. All quiet in Cove?”
“Ess, sure. Every road’s watched and Ma’s got a furze stacked up
to touch off if she gets warning.”
“All right . . . well, keep your eye peeled for his signal.”
Light suddenly broke on Ortho. There was a run on and he was
in it—thrilling! He leaned towards Jacky’s George and whispered,
“Who’s coming? Roscoff boat?”
Jacky’s George uttered two words which sent an electric quiver
through him:
“King Nick.”
 King Nick. Captain Nicholas Buzza, prince of Free Traders, the
man who had made more runs than all the rest put together, who
owned a fleet of armed smugglers and cheated the Revenue of
thousands a year. Who had fooled the riding officers times out of
number and beaten off the Militia. Who had put to sea after a big
privateer sent to suppress him, fought a running fight from Godrevy
to Trevose and sent her diving down the deep sea. The mercurial,
dare-devil King Nick who was said to be unable to sleep comfortably
unless there was a price on his head; who had raided Penzance by
the light of the moon and recaptured a lost cargo; who had been
surprised by the gaugers off Cawsand, chopped to bits with
cutlasses, left for dead—and then swam ashore; who was reported
to walk through Peter Port with all the Guernsey merchants bowing
low before him, was called “Duc de Roscoff” in Brittany, and
commanded more deference in Schiedam than its own Burgomaster.
King Nick, the romantic idol of every West Country boy, coming to
Monks Cove that very night, even then moving towards them
through the dark. Ortho felt as if he were about to enter the
presence of Almighty God.
“Is it a big run?” he whispered to Jacky’s George, trembling with
excitement.
“Naw, main run was at Porthleven last night. This is but the
leavings. A few trifles for the Kiddlywink to oblige me.”
“Is King Nick a friend of yours, then?” said Ortho, wide-eyed.
“Lord save you, yes! We was privateering together years ago.”
Ortho regarded the fisherman with added veneration.
“If a don’t come soon a’ll miss tide,” Anson hissed from the other
boat.
“He’ll come, tide or no tide,” snapped his father. “Hold tongue,
will ’e? Dost want whole world to hear?”
Anson subsided.
 There was a faint mist clouding the sea, but overhead rode a
splendor of stars, an illimitable glitter of silver dust. Nothing was to
be heard but the occasional scrape of sea-boots as one cramped boy
or other shifted position, the wail of a disturbed sea bird from the
looming rookeries above them, the everlasting beat of surf on the
Twelve Apostles a mile away to the southwest and the splash and
sigh of some tired ninth wave heaving itself over the ledges below
Black Carn.
An hour went by. Ashore a cock crowed, and a fisherman’s
donkey, tethered high up the cliff-side, roared asthmatically in reply.
The boats swung round as the tide slackened and made. The night
freshened. Ripples lapped the bows. The land wind was blowing.
Ortho lay face-down on the stroke thwart and yawned. Adventure—if
adventure there was to be—was a long time coming. He was getting
cold. The rhythmic lift and droop of the gig, the lisp and chuckle of
the water voices had a hypnotic effect on him. He pillowed his cheek
on his forearms and drowsed, dreamt he was swaying in gloomy
space, disembodied, unsubstantial, a wraith dipping and soaring
over a bottomless void. Clouds rolled by him big as continents. He
saw the sun and moon below him no bigger than pins’ heads and
world upon glittering world strewn across the dark like grains of
sand. He could not have long lain thus, could not have fallen fully
asleep, for Anson’s first low call set him wide awake.
“Sail ho!”
Both boats’ crews sat up as one man.
“Where away?”
“Sou’-east.”
Ortho’s eyes bored into the hollow murk seawards, but could
distinguish nothing for the moment. Then, as he stared, it seemed to
him that the dark smudge that was the corner of the Carn was
expanding westwards. It stretched and stretched until, finally, a
piece detached itself altogether and he knew it was a big cutter
creeping close inshore under full sail. Never a wink of light did the
stranger show.
“Hast lantern ready?” hissed Jacky’s George.
“Aye,” from Anson.
“Cast off there, hoist killick and stand by.”
“Aye, aye!”
The blur that was the cutter crept on, silent as a shadow, almost
indistinguishable against the further dark, a black moth on black
velvet. All eyes watched her. Suddenly a green light glowed
amidships, stabbing the inky waters with an emerald dagger, glowed
steadily, blinked out, glowed again and vanished. Ortho felt his heart
bound into his throat.
“Now,” snapped Jacky’s George. “Show lantern . . . four times,
remember.”
Anson stood up and did as he was bid.
The green lantern replied, the cutter rounded up in the wind and
drifted towards them, tide-borne.
“Out oars and pull,” said Jacky’s George.
They swept within forty yards of the cutter.
“ ’Vast pulling,” came a voice from her bows.
“Back water, all!” Jacky’s George commanded.
“Is that George Baragwanath?” came the voice again, a high-
pitched, kindly voice, marvelously clear.
“Aye, aye!”
“What’s the word then, my dear?”
“Hosannah!”
“What’s that there boat astern of ’e?”
“Mine—my second boat.”
 “Well, tell him to keep off a cable’s length till I’ve seen to ’e,” the
amiable voice continued. “If he closes ’fore I tell en I’ll blow him
outer the water as God is my salvation. No offense meant, but we
can’t take chances, you understand. Come ahead, you.”
The gig’s crew gave way and brought their craft alongside the
smuggler.
“One at a time,” said the voice somewhere in the darkness above
them, mild as a ringdove. “George, my dear soul, step up alone, will
’e, please?”
Jacky’s George went over the rail and out of sight.
Ortho heard the voice greet him affectionately and then attend to
the helmsman.
“Back fore-sail, Zebedee; she’ll jam ’tween wind and tide. No call
to anchor. We’ll have this little deck load off in ten minutes, please
God, amen! There it is all before you, George—low Hollands proof,
brandy, sugar, and a snatch of snuff. Tally it, will you, please. We’re
late, I’m afraid. I was addressing a few earnest seekers after grace
at Rosudgeon this afternoon and the word of the Lord came upon
me and I spake overlong, I fear, trembling and sweating in my
unworthiness—and then the wind fell very slight. I had to sweep her
along till, by God’s infinite mercy, I picked up this shore draught.
Whistle up your second boat and we’ll load ’em both sides to once.
You haven’t been washed in the blood of the Lamb as yet, have you,
George? Ah, that it might be vouchsafed this unworthy vessel to
purge you with hyssop! I must have a quiet talk with you. Steady
with them tubs, Harry; you’ll drop ’em through the gig.”
For the next quarter of an hour Ortho was busy stowing casks
lowered by the cutter’s crew, but all the time the sweet voice went
on. It seemed to be trying to persuade Jacky’s George into
something he would not do. He could hear the pair tramping the
deck above him side by side—one, two, three, four and roundabout,
one, two, three, four and roundabout—the voice purling like a
melodious brook; Jacky’s George’s gruff negatives, and the brook
purling on again unruffled. Nobody else on the cutter uttered a
sound; it might have been manned by a company of mutes.
Anson called from the port side that he was loaded. Jacky’s
George broke off his conversation and crossed over.
“Pull in then. Soon’s you’ve got ’em stowed show a spark and I’ll
follow.”
Anson’s gig disappeared shorewards, wallowing deep. Jacky’s
George gripped a stay with his hook and swung over the rail into his
own boat.
“I can’t do it, cap’n,” he called. “Good night and thank ’e kindly
all the same. Cast off!”
They were away. It burst upon Ortho that he had not seen his
hero—that he never would. In a minute the tall cutter would be
fading away seawards as mysteriously as she had come and the
great King Nick would be never anything to him but a voice. He
could have cried out with disappointment.
“Push off,” said Jacky’s George.
Ortho leant on his oar and pushed and, as he did so, somebody
sprang from the cutter’s rail, landed on the piled casks behind him as
lightly as a cat, steadied himself with a hand on his shoulder and
dropped into the stern-sheets beside the fisherman.
“Coming ashore wid ’e, George,” said the voice, “and by God’s
grace I’ll persuade ’e yet.”
King Nick was in the boat!
“Mind what I bade ’e, Zebedee,” he hailed the cutter. “Take she
round to once and I’ll be off to-morrow night by God’s providence
and loving kindness.” The cutter swung slowly on her heel, drifted
beam on to the lapping tide, felt her helm and was gone, blotted
out, swallowed up, might never have been.
But King Nick was in the boat! Ortho could not see him—he was
merely a smudged silhouette—but he was in the stern-sheets not a
yard distant. Their calves were actually rubbing! Could such things
be?
They paddled in and hung a couple of cables’ length off shore
waiting Anson’s signal. The smuggler began his argument again, and
this time Ortho heard all; he couldn’t help it.
“Think of the money in it, George. You’ve got a growing family.
Think o’ your duty to them.”
“I reckon they won’t starve—why won’t the bay men do ’e?”
“ ’Cos there’s a new collector coming to Penzance and a regiment
o’ dragoons, and you know what they rogues are—‘their mouth is
full of cursing and bitterness, their feet are swift to shed blood’—
nothing like they poor lambs the militia. Won’t be able to move a
pack horse between Mousehole and Marazion wid they lawless scum
about—God ha’ mercy on ’em and pardon ’em!”
“Who told ’e new collector and sojers is coming?”
“The old collector, Mr. Hawkesby. Took him a pin o’ crafty old
Jamaica with my respects only last Tuesday and he showed me the
letter signed and sealed. An honorable Christian gentleman is Mr.
Hawkesby; many a holy discourse have I had with him. He wouldn’t
deceive me. No, George, ‘Strangers are risen up against me and
tyrants.’ . . . ‘Lo, the ungodly bend their bow.’ ”
“Umph! Well, why don’t ’e run it straight on north coast, handy to
market?”
King Nick’s voice took on a slightly pained tone. “George, George,
my dear life, ponder, will ’e? Consider where between St. Ives and
Sennen can I run a cargo. And how many days a week in winter can
I land at Sennen—eh? Not one. Not one in a month hardly. ‘He
gathereth the waters of the sea together, as it was upon a heap.’
Psalm thirty-three. And it’s in winter that the notable hard drinking’s
done, as thou well knowest. What else is the poor dear souls to do
in the long bitter evenings? Think o’ they poor St. Just tinners down
in the damp and dark all day. ’Tis the duty of any man professing
Christian love and charity to assist they poor souls to get a drop of
warm liquor cheap. What saith the Book? ‘Blessed is he that
considereth the poor and needy.’ Think on that, George.” There were
tears in the melodious brook.
Jacky’s George grunted. “Dunno as I’ve got any turrible love for
tinners. The last pair o’ they mucky toads as comed here pretty nigh
clawed my house down. Why not Porgwarra or Penberth?”
“ ’Cos there aren’t a man there I’d trust, George. I wouldn’t put
my trust en nobody but you—‘The faithful are minished from among
the sons o’ men.’ You run a bit for yourself; why can’t ’e run a bit
more and make a fortune? What’s come over ’e, my old and bold?
’Fraid, are ’e, all to once? What for? You’ve got a snug landing and a
straight track over the moors, wid never a soul to see ’e pass. Riders
can’t rush ’e here in this little crack o’ the rocks; they’d break their
stiff necks. ‘Let their way be dark and slippery and let the angel of
the Lord persecute them: and we shall wash our footsteps in the
blood of the ungodly.’ What makes ’e hold back, old shipmate?”
“Horses,” said Jacky’s George. “Lookee, Cap’n Nick, the money’s
good and I do respect it as much as the next man. I aren’t ’fraid of
riders nor anything else—save tumors—and if it were only a matter
of landing, why, I’d land ’s much stuff as you’ve a mind to. But carry
goods to St. Just for ’e, I won’t, for that means horses, and horses
means farmers. I’m bred to the sea myself and I can’t abide farmers.
I’ve tried it before and there’s always trouble. It do take a week
walking round the earth collecting ’em, and then some do show up
and some don’t, and where are we then? Why, where the cat was—
in the tar-barrel. Paul farmers won’t mix wid Gwithian, and Sancreed
can’t stomach neither. And, what is more, they do eat up all your
profits—five shillings here, ten shillings there—and that ain’t the end
of it. When you think you’ve done paying a farmer, slit me, you’ve
only just begun. I won’t be plagued wid ’em, so that’s the finish.”
“Listen to me a minute,” King Nick purled on, quite undeterred.
“I’ll tell ’e. . . .”
 “T’eddn no manner of use, cap’n,” said Jacky’s George, standing
up. “There’s the light showing. Way all! Bend to it!”
The gig shot shorewards for the slip.
The manner in which the Baragwanath family disposed of a run
contained the elements of magic. It was a conjuring trick, no less
—“now you see it, now you don’t.” At one moment the slip-head was
chockablock with bales and barrels; at the next it was bare. They
swooped purposefully out of nowhere, fell upon the goods and—hey,
presto!—spirited themselves back into nowhere, leaving the slip
wiped clean.
Including one son and two daughters-in-law, the tribe mustered
fourteen in all, and in the handling of illicit merchandise the ladies
were as gifted as the gentlemen. Ortho was laboriously trundling a
cask up the slip when he encountered one of the Misses
Baragwanath, who gave him a push and took the matter out of his
hands. By the time he had recovered his balance she had gone and
so had the cask. It was too dark to see which way she went. Not
that he was interested; on the contrary, he wanted to think. He had
a plan forming in his head, a money-making plan.
He strode up and down the bare strip by the boat capstan
getting the details clear. It did not take him long, being simplicity
itself. He hitched his belt and marched up the little hamlet hot with
inspiration.
Subdued mysterious sounds came from the surrounding
darkness, whispering thuds, shovel scrapings, sighs as of men
heaving heavy weights. A shed suddenly exploded with the clamour
of startled hens. In another a sow protested vocally against the
disturbance of her bed. There was a big bank running beside the
stream in front of “The Admiral Anson.” As Ortho passed by the
great mass of earth and bowlders became articulate. A voice deep
within its core said softly, “Shift en a bit further up, Zack; there’s
three more to come.”
 Ortho saw a thin chink of light between two of the bowlders,
grinned and strode into the kitchen of the Kiddlywink. There was a
chill burning on the table and a kettle humming on the hearth.
Jacky’s George sat before the fire, stirring a mug of grog which he
held between his knees. Opposite him sat a tall old man dressed in
unrelieved black from neck to toe. A wreath of snowy hair circled his
bald pate like a halo. A pair of tortoise-shell spectacles jockeyed the
extreme tip of his nose, he regarded Jacky’s George over their rims
with an expression benign but pained.
Jacky’s George looked up at Ortho’s entrance.
“Hallo, what is it?”
“Where’s King Nick? I want to see him.”
The tortoise-shell spectacles turned slowly in his direction.
“There is but one King, my son, omnipotent and all-merciful. One
King—on High . . . but my name is certainly Nicholas.”
Ortho staggered. This the master-smuggler, the swashbuckling,
devil-may-care hero of song and story! This rook-coated,
bespectacled, white-headed old Canorum [Methodist] local preacher,
King Nick! His senses reeled. It could never be, and yet he knew it
was. It was the same voice, the voice that had blandly informed
Anson he would blow him out of the water if he pulled another
stroke. He felt for the door post and leaned against it goggling.
“Well?”
Ortho licked his lips.
“Well? I eddn no fiery dragon to eat ’e, boy. Say thy say.”
Ortho drew a long breath, hesitated and let it out with a rush.
“I can find the horses you’re wanting. I can find thirty horses a
night any time after Twelfth Night, and land your goods in St. Just
under four hours.”
King Nick screwed round in his chair, turning the other side of his
face to the light, and Ortho saw, with a shock of revulsion, that the
ear had been sheared off and his face furrowed across and across
with two terrible scars—relics of the Cawsand affair. It was as
though the old man was revealing the other side of him, spiritual as
well as physical.
“Come nearer, lad. How do ’e knaw I want horses?”
“I heard you. I was pulling stroke in boat.”
“Son o’ yourn, George? He don’t favor ’e, seem me.”
“Naw. Young Squire Penhale from Bosula up-valley.”
“You knaw en?”
“Since he were weaned.”
“Ah, ha! Ah, ha!” The smuggler’s blue eyes rested on Ortho,
benevolent yet probing. “And where can you find thirty horses, my
son? ’Tis a brear passell.”
“Gypsy Herne rests on my land over winter; he has plenty.”
“An Egyptian! An idolater! A worshiper after false gods! Put not
thy trust in such, boy—though I do hear many of the young ones is
baptized and coming to the way of Light. Hum! Ha! . . . But how do
’e knaw he’ll do it!”
“ ’Cos he wants the money bad. He lost three parts of his stock in
Wales this summer. I was with en.”
“Oh, wid en, were ’e? So you knawn en well. And horse leaders?”
“There’s seven Romanies and three of us up to farm.”
“You knaw the country, s’pose?”
“Day or night like my own yard.”
King Nick turned on Jacky’s George, a faint smile curling the
corners of his mouth. “What do ’e say now, George? Can this young
man find the horses, think you?”
“Ess, s’pose.”
 “Do ’e trust en?”
A nod.
“Then what more ’ave ’e got to say, my dear?”
The fisherman scratched his beard, breathed heavily through his
nostrils and said, “All right.”
King Nick rose to his feet, rubbing his hands together.
“ ‘Now let Jacob rejoice and Israel be glad.’ That’s settled.
Welcome back to the fold, George, my old soul. ‘This is my brother
that was dead but is alive again.’ Soon’s you give me word the
Romany is agreeable I’ll slip ’e the cargoes, so shall the poor tinner
be comforted at a reasonable price and the Lord be praised with
cymbals—‘yea, with trumpets also and shawms.’ Gather in all the
young men and maidens, George, that we may ask a blessing on our
labors! Fetch ’em in to once, for I can feel the word of the Lord
descending upon me!”

Dawn peering through the bottle-panes of Jacky’s George’s

Kiddlywink saw the entire Baragwanath family packed shoulder to
shoulder singing lustily, while before them, on a chair, stood a
benevolent old gentleman in black beating time with one of John
Wesley’s hymnals, white hair wreathing his head like a silver glory.
“Chant, my dear beauties!” he cried. “Oh, be cheerful! Be
jubilant! Lift up your voices unto the Lord! ‘Awake up, my glory,
Awake lute and harp!’ Now all together!”
“When passing through the watery deep
I ask in faith His promised aid;
The waves an awful distance keep
And shrink from my devoted head.”
 CHAPTER XV
Pyramus came down earlier than usual that year. The tenth of
December saw his smoke-grimed wigwams erected in the little
wood, the cloaks and scarves of the Romany women making bright
blots of color among the somber trees, bronze babies rolling among
bronze leaves.
Ortho was right; the gypsy chief had been hard hit and was open
to any scheme for recouping his fortunes. After considerable
haggling he consented to a fee of six shillings per horse per run—
leaders thrown in—which was a shilling more than Ortho had
intended to give him and two shillings more than he would have
taken if pressed. The cavalry had not arrived as yet, and Ortho did
not think it politic to inform Pyramus they were expected; there were
the makings in him of a good business man.
The first run was dated for the night of January the third, but the
heavy ground swell was rolling in and the lugger lay off until the
evening of the fifth. King Nick arrived on the morning of the third,
stepped quietly into the kitchen of the “Admiral Anson” as the
Baragwanath family were sitting down to breakfast, having walked
by night from Germoe. The meal finished, he gave melodious thanks
to Heaven, sent for Ortho, asked what arrangements had been made
for the landing, condemned them root and branch and substituted
an entirely fresh lot. That done, he rode off to St. Just to survey the
proposed pack route, taking Ortho with him.
He was back again by eight o’clock at night and immediately held
a prayer-meeting in the Kiddlywink, preaching on “Lo, he thirsteth
even as a hart thirsteth after the water brooks”—a vindication of the
gin traffic—and passing on to describe the pains of hell with such
graphic detail that one Cove woman fainted and another had
hysterics.
 The run came off without a hitch two nights later. Ortho had his
horses loaded up and away by nine o’clock. At one-thirty a crowd of
enthusiastic diggers (all armed with clubs) were stripping his load
and secreting it in an old mine working on the outskirts of St. Just.
He was home in bed before dawn. Fifty-six casks of mixed gin, claret
and brandy they carried that night, not to mention five
hundredweight of tea.
On January 17th he carried forty-three casks, a bale of silk and a
hundredweight of tea to Pendeen, dumping some odds and ends
outside Gwithian as he passed by. And so it went on.
The consumption of cheap spirits among the miners was
enormous. John Wesley, to whose credit can be placed almost the
whole moral regeneration of the Cornish tinner, describes them as
“those who feared not God nor regarded man,” accuses them of
wrecking ships and murdering the survivors and of taking their
pleasure in “hurling, at which limbs are often broken, fighting,
drinking, and all other manner of wickedness.”
In winter their pastimes were restricted to fighting and drinking—
principally drinking—in furtherance of which Ortho did a roaring
trade. Between the beginning of January and the end of March he
ran an average of five landings a month without any one so much as
wagging a finger at him. The dragoons arrived at Christmas, but
instead of a regiment two troops only appeared and they speedily
declared a policy of “live and let live.” Their commanding officer,
Captain Hambro, had not returned to his native land after years of
hard campaigning to spend his nights galloping down blind byways
at the behest of a civilian riding officer.
He had some regard for his horses’ legs and more for his own
comfort. He preferred playing whist with the local gentry, who had
fair daughters and who were the soul of hospitality. He temporized
good-humoredly with the collector, danced quadrilles with the fair
daughters at the “Ship and Castle,” and toasted their bright eyes in
excellent port and claret, the knowledge that it had not paid a penny
of duty in nowise detracting from its flavor. Occasionally—when he
had no other appointment and the weather was passable—he
mounted his stalwarts and made a spectacular drive—this as a sop
to the collector. But he never came westwards; the going was too
rough, and, besides, St. Just was but small potatoes compared with
big mining districts to the east.
For every cask landed at Monks Cove, King Nick and his merry
men landed twenty either at Prussia Cove, Porthleven, Hayle or
Portreath—sometimes at all four places simultaneously. Whenever
Capt. Hambro’s troopers climbed into their saddles and took the road
to Long Rock, a simple but effective system of signals flashed ahead
of them so that they found very little.
There was one nasty affair on Marazion Beach. Owing to a
misunderstanding the cavalry came upon a swarm of tinners in
process of making a landing. The tinners (who had broached a cask
and were full of spirit in more senses than one) foolishly opened
hostilities. The result was two troopers wounded, six miners killed—
bearing out King Nick’s warning that the soldiers might easily be
fooled, but they were by no means so easily frightened. The trade
absorbed this lesson and there were no more regrettable incidents
that season.
Ortho was satisfied with his winter’s work beyond all
expectations. It was a common tenet among Free Traders of those
days that one cargo saved would pay for two lost, and Ortho, so far
from losing a single cargo, had only lost five tubs in all—three stove
in transshipping and two when the mule carrying them fell into a pit.
Everybody was satisfied. The district was flooded with cheap liquor.
All the Covers in turn assisted in the boat-work and so picked up
money in the off-season, when they needed it most. Pyramus, with
his animals in constant employment, did so well that he delayed his
northern trip for a month.
The only person (with the exception of His Majesty’s Collector of
Customs) who was not entirely pleased was Eli. In defrauding the
Revenue he had no scruples whatever, but it interfered with his
farming. This smuggling was all very fine and remunerative, but it
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