“Ay! gambling and such like, I suppose?” observed the landlord, cunningly.  “It is ‘Light come light go’ with the money of that sort of folk, I reckon.”

“Just so; and though my money comes light enough—­that is, I have not to earn it, since my mother makes me an allowance—­I don’t choose to risk it at the card-table.”

“Quite right, quite right, young gentleman,” answered the other, approvingly.  “But there are some prudent gentry even at Crompton, I suppose.  Parson Whymper, for instance, he don’t gamble, do he?”

“Certainly not; he is much too sagacious a man, even if he were rich enough, to play; but for him, indeed, some say the Squire would have come to the end of his tether before this.  He manages every thing at Crompton, as you know.”

“And yet Carew don’t want money?” said the landlord, musing.

“Well, I have been his guest,” returned Richard, smiling; “and it is scarcely fair of me to speak of his embarrassments.  He does not certainly want it so much but that he can still afford to indulge his whims, Mr. Trevethick, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s just what I did mean,” said the old man, frankly.  “Six months ago or so I made a certain proposition to the Squire, which would have been exceedingly to his advantage to accept—­”

“And not to yours?” interrupted Richard, slyly.

“Nay, I don’t say that, Sir,” answered the other.  “But it was one that he ought to have been glad to accept in any case, and which it was downright madness in him to refuse, if he wanted cash.  It was a chance, too, I will venture to say, that will never offer itself from any other quarter.  Mr. Whymper acknowledged that himself.”

“I know all about the matter, Mr. Trevethick:  the Squire behaved like the dog in the manger to you.  He won’t work the mine himself, nor yet let you work it.”

“For mercy’s sake, be quiet!” cried the landlord, earnestly, and looking cautiously about him.  “If you know all about it, you need not let others know.  What mine are you talking about?  Give it a name—­but speak it under your breath, man.”  The old man leaned forward with a white moist face, and peered into Richard’s eyes as though he would read his soul.

“Wheal Danes was the name of the place, if I remember right,” said Richard.  “Carew has a notion that the Romans did not use it up, and that it only wants capital to make it a paying concern.  It is one of his mad ideas, doubtless.”

Mr. John Trevethick was not by nature a quick appreciator of sarcasm, but he could not misunderstand the irony expressed in Richard’s words.

“And is that what you came down to Gethin about?” inquired he, with a sort of grim despair, which had nevertheless a comical effect.

Richard could only trust himself to nod his head assentingly.

“Well,” cried the other, striking the table with his fist, “if I didn’t think you was as deep as the devil the very first day that I set eyes on you!  So you are Parson Whymper’s man, are you?” And here, in default of language to express his sense of the deception that, as he supposed, had been practiced on him, Mr. Trevethick uttered an execration terrible enough for a Cornish giant.