On Saturday, almost at blink of dawn, the Penhaligons started house-moving.  Mrs Penhaligon had everything ready—­even the last box corded—­more than thirty-six hours earlier.  But she would neither finish nor start installing herself on a Friday, which was an unlucky day.

The discomfort of taking their meals on packing-cases and sleeping on mattresses spread upon the bare floor weighed as nothing with the children in comparison with the delightful sense of adventure.  Neither ’Bert nor ’Beida, when they came to talk it over, could understand why their mother was in such a fever to quit the old house.  Scarcely ten days before she had kept assuring them, almost angrily, that there was no hurry before Michaelmas.  It was queer, too, that not only had she forbidden them to accept even the smallest offer of help from Nicky-Nan when he showed himself willing (as he expressed it) for any light job as between neighbours, but on ’Bert’s attempting to argue the point with her she had boxed ‘Biades’ ears for a quite trifling offence and promptly collapsed and burst into tears with no more preparation than that of throwing an apron over her head.

“She’s upset,” said ’Bert.

“If you learn at this rate, you’ll be sent for, one of these days, by the people up at Scotland Yard,” said ’Beida sarcastically.  But you cannot glean much intelligence from a face which is covered by an apron.

“She’s upset at leavin’ the house.  Women are like that—­always—­when it comes to the point,” ’Bert persisted.

“Are they?  I’ll give you leave to watch me.  And I’ll bet you sixpence.”

“You’re not a woman yet.  When the time comes you may start cryin’ or you mayn’t.  But I’ll take even money you box ‘Biades’ ears.”

’Beida’s glance travelled to that forlorn child.  “I’ll not take any bet,” she announced; “when you know that it may be necessary at any moment—­he’s that unaccountable.”  She lifted her voice so that the innocent culprit could not avoid hearing.  “I don’t speckilate on a thief,” she added with vicious intention.

“Hush—­hush!” said ’Bert, and glanced anxiously at his sobbing parent.

Nicky-Nan was the worst puzzled of them all.  He had promised Sam Penhaligon to do his best when the family shifted quarters:  and now Mrs Penhaligon would not hear of his lifting so much as a hand.

He spent most of the day out on the cliffs, idly watching the military.

Mrs Penhaligon had invoked the aid of Farmer Best; and Farmer Best (always a friend of the unfriended) had sent down two hay waggons to transport the household stuff.  By four in the afternoon, or thereabouts, the last load had been carried and was in process of delivery at Aunt Bunney’s cottage.

At a quarter to five Nicky-Nan returned to the desolate house.  The front door stood open, of course.  So (somewhat to his surprise) did the door of the Penhaligons’ kitchen.