It had not been opened for many years—­never, indeed, in the time of his tenancy.  Door and fireplace had provided between them all the ventilation he was conscious of needing.

It cost him three minutes to push up the lower sash.  He managed to open it some ten inches, and then, as a protest against this interference with its gradual decay, the sash-cord broke.  He heard with a jump of the heart the weight thud down behind the woodwork:  then, as he groped hastily behind him for a brick, to prop the sash, it came down with a run, and closed its descent with a jar that shook out two of its bottle panes to drop into the water that rushed below.  Prompt upon this came a flutter and scurry of wings in water, and a wild quacking, as a bevy of ducks dashed for shore.

A casement window was thrust open on the far side of the stream.  A woman’s voice shrilled—­

“That’s you, is it?  Oh, yes—­you Penhaligon children!  You needn’ clucky down an’ hide—­an’ after breakin’ Mr Nanjivell’s windows, that hasn’ sixpence between hisself an’ heaven, to pay a glazier!”

(But it was Mr Nanjivell himself who cowered down out of sight, clutching the woodwork of the window-sill with wealth behind him surpassing the dreams of avarice.)

“Proper young limbs you be,” the voice went on.  “With no father at home to warm ’ee!”—­

(Let this not be mistaken for a tribute to Mr Penhaligon’s parental kindness, good father though he was.  To “warm” a child in Polpier signifies to beat him with a strap.)

“And him in danger of submarines, that snatch a man before his Maker like a snuff of a candle, while you can find no better way of employing your holidays than scatterin’ other folks’ glass to the danger o’ my ducks!  You just wait till I’ve wiped my arms, here, and I’ll be round to tell your mother about ’ee!”

Nicky-Nan had recognised the voice at once.  It belonged to Mrs Climoe, possibly the champion virago of Polpier, and a woman of her word—­a woman who never missed an opportunity to make trouble.  Her allusion to wiping her arms before action he as swiftly understood.  The window across the stream belonged to Mrs Climoe’s wash-kitchen.  Again he cursed the luck that had interposed Bank Holiday and adjourned the washing operations of Polpier.

But he must defend himself:  for Mrs Climoe never promised anything which—­if it happened to be unpleasant—­she did not punctually perform.  With swift cunning he snatched up his parcel of staples and screws, caught at a poker, and made a leap for the door.

Here luck aided him.  Mrs Penhaligon had finished her scrubbing and carried her pail out to the porch.  There she met Mrs Climoe’s first accost, and it surprised her beyond measure:  for her children were down upon the Quay playing.  By rights they should have returned half an hour before:  it was, indeed, close upon dinner-time.  But she had been in the passage for a whole hour, with just an interval now and then for a dive into the kitchen to see how the pasties were cooking.  She felt morally sure that they could not have returned without her knowing it.  They usually made her so exceedingly well aware of their return.