The tunding of the drum up the valley seemed to Nicky-Nan to emphasise the loneliness all about him.  But down by the Quay-head he came in sight of Policeman Rat-it-all (so named from his only and frequent expletive), seated on a bollard and staring up at the sky.

Nicky-Nan hesitated:  hung, indeed, for a moment, on the edge of flight.  This was Bank Holiday, and until to-morrow’s sunrise a constable was powerless as Satan in a charmed circle.  Still, the man might have the ejectment order in his pocket—­would, if not already furnished with it, almost certainly know about it.  On the other hand there was a chance—­it might be worth while—­to discover how much Rat-it-all knew.  Forewarned is forearmed.  Moreover, when your country is at war, and silence holds the city, there is great comfort in a chat.  Nicky-Nan advanced with a fine air of nonchalance.

“Lookin’ at the sky?” said he.  “Wind’s back in the nor’-west again.  Which, for settled weather, I’d rather it took off-shore a bit later in the afternoon.  It’ll last though, for all that, I shoudn’ wonder.”

Policeman Rat-it-all withdrew his gaze from the firmament.

“I wasn’ thinkin’ of the wind,” said he.  “I take no account of the elements, for my part.  Never did; and now never shall—­havin’ been born up to Bodmin, where the prison is.”

“Oh!” said Nicky-Nan suspiciously.  “What’s it like?”

“Bodmin?” Policeman Rat-it-all seemed to reflect for a moment.  “Well, I wouldn’t just say it’s altogether like any place in particular.  There’s a street, of course, . . . and there’s the prison, and the barracks, and an asylum where they keep the lunatics, and a workhouse and what-not.  But if you put to me, in so many words, what it’s like—­”

“I—­I meant the prison,” explained Nicky-Nan; that being the only feature of Bodmin in which he felt any instant concern.

“It’s a place,” answered Policeman Rat-it-all with painful lucidity, “where they shut people up.  Sometimes there’s an execution.  But not often; not very often; once in a while, as you might say.  There’s a monument, too,—­upon a hill they call the Beacon.  I’m very fond of Bodmin.  It’s the County Town, you know; and with these little things going on, in one way and another, why, that enlarges the mind.”

“Does it so?” asked Nicky-Nan, a trifle puzzled.

“It do indeed,” the constable assured him with conviction.  “Take me, now, at this present moment, for instance.  You comes upon me suddent, and what do you catch me doin’?  You catches me,”—­here his voice became impressive—­“you catches me lookin’ up at the sky.  And why am I lookin’ up at the sky?  It is to say to you, ’Nicholas Nanjivell, the wind is sot in the sou’-west?’”

“Not if you expect me to believe ’ee.  ‘Tisn’ a point off north-an-by-west.”

“—­Or,” the constable continued, lifting a hand, “is it to say to you, ‘It is sot in the north-west,’ as the case may be?  Or is it I was wastin’ the day in idleness, same as some persons I could mention in the Force if there wasn’ such a thing as discipline?  Not so.  I was lookin’ up in the execution of my duty.  An’ what do you suppose I was lookin’ for?”