He had broken one blade in trying to unfasten the solder, and was beginning with the second, when it occurred to him to cut through the soft metal of the canister.  In a few minutes he had worked a considerable hole in the lid.

“Very curious tea this,” remarked Mr. Fogo.  “It’s a deal more like putty—­or Californian honey.”

The light in the cabin was faint; he determined to carry the canister on deck and examine it in the sunlight.

He picked his way up the ladder, and was just emerging from the hatch, when the sudden glare of the sun caused him to blink and then sneeze.  He caught his toe on the last step, stumbled, dropped his prize, and fell forward on to the deck.  The canister struck the step, jolted twice, plunged to the bottom with a smart thud—­

There was a flash of jagged flame, a loud roar, a heave and crash of riven timbers—­and the old hull had passed from decay to annihilation.

This would seem a convenient moment for regulating our watches, which have gained considerably, and putting back the hands to half-past ten, at which hour the bells of St. Symphorian’s, Troy, began to summon the town to worship.

A few minutes later the town sallied forth in pairs and decorous excitement.  It was dying to see Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys’ costume, and marched churchwards in haste.  But to-day it halted for the most part at the church-porch, and went no further.

Who first whispered the news is disputed.  It is conjectured that Mrs. Tripp, whose cow supplied “The Bower” with milk, learnt the facts from the buttoned youth when she paid her professional call at 7.30 a.m.; but none knew for certain.  I might here paint Mrs. Tripp full of tongues, and dress her up as “Rumour,” after the best epic models; but in saying that she had the usual number of lips and hands, that her parents were respectable, and that she never shrieked from a lofty tower in her life, I only do her the barest justice.

This much is sure—­that among the knot of loungers at the church-gate such sentences as the following passed from mouth to mouth—­

“Es et true, do’ee think?”

“Certain—­carr’ge an’ pair from Five Lanes las’ night—­not a word said.”

“My!”

“Ef so, this town’s been purtily robbed.”

“That’s a true word.”

Then this happened—­

The Trojan in broadcloth heard, as he passed, the words of the Trojan in corduroy; inquired, shook his head, and walked on; doubted; turned back to hear more; consulted his wife; and decided to go and see.

The consequence was that at ten minutes to eleven the stream of church-goers descending along the Parade was met by another stream rolling towards “The Bower” and every moment gathering volume.  As there was no place of worship in this direction, a conference followed the confluence.  The churchgoers turned, joined the larger stream, and the whole flood poured uphill.