the telescopes of the coastguard in their watch-house.  Folks had hinted from time to time (but always chaffing him) that the land must belong to some one—­to the Crown, maybe, or, more likely, to the Duchy.  But he had tilled it for years undisturbed and unchallenged.  The parcel had come to be known as “Nicky-Nan’s Chapel,” because on fine Sundays, when godlier folks were in church, he spent so much of his time there, smoking and watching the Channel and thinking his thoughts.  It was inconceivable that any one should dispute his title now, after the hundreds and hundreds of maundfuls of seaweed under which, first and last—­in his later years—­he had staggered up the path from the Cove, to incorporate them in the soil.

At the turn of the street he fetched up standing, arrested by another bright idea.  Why, of course!  He would carry up a part of his wealth to the ’taty-patch and bury it. . . .  But a man shouldn’t put all his eggs in one basket, and—­why hadn’t he thought of it before?  The money had lain those many years, safe and unsuspected, under the false floor of the cupboard.  Simplest thing in the world, now that Pamphlett had given him a respite, to plank up the place again with a couple of new boards, plaster up the ceiling of the sitting-room, and restore a good part of the gold to its hiding!—­not all of it, though; since Pamphlett might change his mind at any time, and of a sudden.  No, a good part of the gold must be conveyed to the ’taty-patch.  He would make a start, maybe, that very night—­or rather, that very evening in the dusk when the moon rose:  for (now he came to remember) the moon would be at her full to-morrow, or next day.  While the dusk lasted he could dig, up there, and no passer-by would suspect him of any intent beyond eking out the last glimpse of day.  To be surprised in the act of digging by moonlight was another matter, and might start an evil rumour.  For one thing, it was held uncanny, in Polpier, to turn the soil by moonlight—­a deed never done save by witches or persons in league with Satan.  Albeit they may not own to it, two-thirds of the inhabitants of Polpier believe in black magic.

He would make a start, then, towards dusk.  There was no occasion to take any great load at one time, or even to be seen with any conspicuous burden.  As much gold as his two pockets would carry—­ that would serve for a start.  To-morrow he might venture to visit Mrs Pengelly and purchase a new and more capacious pair of trousers—­ to-morrow, or perhaps the day after.  Caution was necessary.  He had already astonished Mr Gedye, the ironmonger, with his affluence:  and just now again, like a fool, he had been dropping sovereigns about Latter’s bar-parlour.  That had been an awkward moment.  He had extricated himself with no little skill, but it was a warning to be careful against multiplying evidence or letting it multiply.  A new pair of trousers, as this narrative has already hinted,