Polpier lies in a gorge so steep and deep that though it faces but a little east of south, all its western flank lay already in deep shadow.  The sunlight slanting over the ridge touched the tops of the masts, half a dozen of which had trucks with a bravery of gilt, while a couple wore the additional glory of a vane.  On these it flashed, and passed on to bathe the line of cottages along the eastern shore, with the coast-guard hut that stood separate beyond them on the round of the cliff-track—­all in one quiet golden glow.  War?  Who could think of War? . . .  Nicky-Nan at any rate let the thought of it slip into the sea of his private trouble.  It was as though he had hauled up some other man’s “sinker” and, discovering his mistake, let it drop back plumb.

While he stared, the children had stolen away.

Yet he loitered there staring, in the hush of the warm afternoon, lifting his eyes a little towards the familiar outline of the hills that almost overlapped, closing out sight of the sea.  A verse ran in his head—­“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. . . .”

The slamming of a door at the street-corner beyond the bridge recalled him to the world of action.

On the doorstep of the local Bank—­turning key in lock as he left the premises—­stood a man respectably dressed and large of build.  It was Mr Pamphlett, the Bank-Manager.  Nicky-Nan thrust his hands in his trouser-pockets and limped towards him.

“If you please, sir—­”

Mr Pamphlett faced about, displaying a broad white waistcoat and a ponderous gold watch-chain.

“Ah!  Nanjivell?”

“If you please, sir—­” Nicky-Nan, now balanced on his sound leg, withdrew a hand from his pocket and touched his cap.  “I’ve been waitin’ your convenience.”

“Busy times,” said Mr Pamphlett.  “This Moratorium, you know.  The War makes itself felt, even in this little place.”

If Nicky-Nan had known the meaning of the word Moratorium, it might have given him an opening.  But he did not, and so he stood dumb.  “You have come to say, I hope,” hazarded Mr Pamphlett after a pause, “that you don’t intend to give me any more trouble? . . .  You’ve given me enough, you know.  An Ejectment Order. . . .  Still—­if, at the last, you’ve made up your mind to behave—­”

“There’s no other house, sir.  If there was, and you’d let it to me—­”

“That’s likely, hey?  In the present scandalous laxity of the law towards tenants, you’ve cost me a matter of pounds—­not to mention six months’ delay, which means money lost—­to eject you.  You, that owe me six pounds rent!  It’s likely I’d let you another house—­even if I had one!”

“Even if you had the will, ‘twouldn’ be right.  I understand that, sir.  Six young men, as I know, waitin’ to marry and unable, because the visitors snap up cottage after cottage for summer residences, an’ll pay you fancy prices; whereas you won’t build for the likes o’ we.”