The man—­he was one of the seamen of the Gauntlet—­stood up in the cart upon a load of stones and grinned.  In one hand he gripped the reins, in the other a fistful of flints.

“Your honour’s pardon,” said he, lifting his forearm and drawing the back of it across his dripping brow, “but the grey mare for’rad won’t pull, and the whip here won’t reach her.  I couldn’t think upon no better way.”

“You mean to tell me you have been pelting that poor brute all down the lane?”

“I couldn’t think upon no better way,” the seaman repeated wistfully, almost plaintively.  “She’s what you might call sensitive to stones.”

“Intelligent beast!” commented Mr. Fett.  “And I bought that mare only six months ago!” (In truth my father had found the poor creature wandering the roads and starving, cast off by her owner as past work, and had purchased her out of mere humanity for thirty shillings.)

“But what business have you to be driving my cart and horses?” he demanded.  “And what’s the meaning of these stones you’re carting?”

“Ballast, your honour.”

“Ballast?”

“I don’t know how much of it’ll ever arrive at this rate,” confessed the seaman, dropping the handful of flints and scratching his head.  “Tis buying speed at a terrible cost of jettison.  But Cap’n Pomery’s last order to me was to make haste about it, if we’re to catch to-morrow’s tide.”

“Captain Pomery sent you for these stones?”

“Why, Lord love your honour, a vessel can’t discharge two dozen Papist monks and cattle and implements to correspond without wantin’ something in their place.  Nice flat stones, too, the larger-sized be, and not liable to shift in a sea-way.”

But here another strange noise drew our eyes up the lane, as an old man in a smock-frock—­a pensioner of the estate, and by name John Worthyvale—­came hobbling round the corner and down the hill towards us, using his long-handled road hammer for a staff and uttering shrill tremulous cries of rage.

“Vengeance, Sir John!  Vengeance for my l’il heap o’ stones!”

“Why, Worthyvale, what’s the matter?” asked my father, soothingly.

“My l’il heap o’ stones, Sir John; my poor l’il heap o’ stones!  What’s to become o’ me, master?  Where will your kindness find a bellyful for me, if these murderin’ seamen take away my l’il heap o’ stones?”

My father laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“Captain Pomery wants them for ballast, Worthyvale.  You understand?  It appears he can find none so suitable.’’

“No, I don’t understand!” exclaimed the old fellow, fiercely.  “This has been a black week for me, Sir John.  First of all my darter’s youngest darter comes and tells me she’ve picked up with a man.  Seems ‘twas only last year she was runnin’ about in short frocks; but, dang it! the time must ha’ slipped away somehow whilst I’ve a-sat hammerin’ stones, an’ now there’ll be no person left to mind me.  Next news, I hear from Master Gervase that you be goin’ foreign, Sir John, with Master Prosper here.  The world gets that empty, I wish I were dead, I do.  An’ now they’ve a-took my l’il heap o’ stones!”