THE MAJOR'S HOME-COMING
"Ande, son, we'll push straight on to the village; thy mother, lad, was
always an early riser, and mayhap will have a light in the window," said
the old Major, after they had eaten a light breakfast in the Angel Inn.
Major Trembath and his son, Ande, had arrived three o'clock that morning
at the Falmouth Breakwater. They had hurriedly left the ship and had
taken the early morning stage coach for Helston, arriving there in time
for an early breakfast.
"Shall we get horses?" asked the son.
"Horses, lad, what do I want with a horse? Have I not tramped scores of
miles with the rifle over my shoulder, when I was a solitary hunter at
the Loop. My limbs are as strong now as they were a score of years ago,
and I doubt much, after these years of hunting and tramping, whether I
would feel as much at home on horse-back as I would on my own feet. Then
we must remember, lad, that though our name is untarnished and
honourable, we are still poor, and it behooves us to be devotees of
economy. Horses, no; they are not to be thought of."
Ande acquiesced, and forth in the morning twilight they started. What a
happy two-mile walk that was! The Major related tales of his youth
associated with the section through which they wended their way, and the
son related tales as well. The incident of the duck cave and the scared
Greggs was forcibly brought to mind as they passed the cave, and he told
the story much to the hearty amusement of his father.
The activity of youth seemed to fill the frame of the old Major as he
approached the proximity of the village. His steps seemed to lengthen
and increase in rapidity. Then through the dim twilight the outlines of
the village burst upon their vision, and then the Major strained his
keen eyes to catch the first view of the Primrose Cottage. At length he
saw it.
"It's there still," he cried joyously, and then added, "But no light.
Thy mother is late in rising, lad."
They followed the roadway past the village and up the ascent to the
cottage home. The hedges on either side of the little domain were sadly
out of repair, and the Major noticed it.
"Things gone badly since I was in these parts, but we will soon have
them on a better footing."
They opened the rickety gate softly, and then stole into the doorway.
Then grasping the rapper, the Major lifted it and rapped hard several
times. Then smilingly, with dancing expectant eyes, they stood back and
awaited. What a joyful greeting, they thought. But there was no answer,
nor even the shadow of a sound that greeted their own echoes.
"You try, Ande, lad."
Ande advanced to the door and rapped, but the same death-like silence
prevailed.
"Something wrong," said the old Major. "Ah! what's that writing?" His
keen eyes, sharpened by years of woodcraft, had caught the glimpse of a
paper tacked to the upper portion of the door. In the happy anticipation
of coming reunion they had not noticed it before. Ande tore it from its
fastenings and brought it forth more closely to their vision.
"For rent,--James Lanyan," slowly read Ande.
"Some cursed doings of the Lanyans," said the old man weakly, and he sat
down on the steps, for in his disappointment his strength began to fail
him. Just at this moment a lad was seen passing, and Ande accosted him.
"Mrs. Trembath? Why--her's gone nigh two years ago. Sir James Lanyan got
the place and sold her out."
"Where did she go, lad?" asked the Major, faintly. "No one knows that,
sir."
The old man buried his face in his hands. His spirit, so cheery a short
time before, seemed broken.
"Are the Vivians still here?" asked Ande, sharply, for there was an
angry passion raging within him.
"Old squire died a year or so ago. The Lanyans got the Manor, and some
says as how the old squire died of a broken heart, sir."
"And Mistress Alice?"
"Her's gone, too; no one knows where; the Lanyans turned 'er out."
"The black-hearted villain! Thief! Rogue!" roared Ande, his passion
bursting forth beyond all bounds. The lad fled in affright at the
dreadful words and the black countenance, that was in truth diabolical
with rage. The old Major sought to calm him, but of little avail.
"For all that the Lanyans have done to me and mine, the dishonourable
scandal on our name, the suffering and humilation it has caused us, and
these last cruel and inhuman deeds, I will be terribly revenged on him
and his!" Ande Trembath raised his hand to heaven and continued his
invective. The hatred of a lifetime seemed to culminate in a torrent of
expressions like these. Then there was silence.
"We'll go and see Parson Trant at the rectory, father," said Ande, and
the old Major, seemingly with no resolution of his own, was assisted to
his feet, and on they trudged.
The glimmering twilight had merged into dawn, yet there was a light in
the parson's study window and his head, now thoroughly silvered, could
be seen bending over his manuscript. The short walk seemed to revive the
Major's spirits. They knocked and were admitted.
The old parson knew neither of them for a moment. Then Ande spoke.
"What! Parson Trant, and do you not remember me, Ande Trembath?"
"Why, Ande, my dear lad! This is a surprise! How you have grown! Why,
lad, where have you been all these years? And this is your friend?" With
his kindly, fatherly greeting, he shook hands warmly, and then turned
to the other stranger.
"More than friend," said Ande.
"And do you not know me?" smilingly said the old Major, as he advanced
with outstretched hands. The rector passed his hand o'er his forehead
once or twice, as he scrutinised the stranger, and then,--
"What! Impossible! Yes--No--Yes, it must be he. My old friend and
school-fellow, Thomas Trembath! Well, well, well, well!" and the old
parson upset a pile of books in his eagerness to reach the Major. Tears
of delight were in his eyes as he flung open the study door and called,
"Harriet! Harriet!" His wife, a pleasant old lady, soon came in.
"Harriet, do you know these two gentlemen?" The genial old parson was
smiling, and rubbing his hands in delight. "Ah, I thought you wouldn't.
This is our old friend, Major Thomas Trembath, and this is his son,
Ande."
"Goodness me!" exclaimed Harriet, as she cordially welcomed them, and
entered into her husband's pleasure.
"And now come in and have a cup of tea. Breakfast is about ready?" said
the parson aside to his wife, inquiringly, and receiving an affirmative
answer, notwithstanding protests that they had already breakfasted, the
Major and his son were ushered into the little breakfast room, where,
over the tea table, the parson related the facts of Squire Vivian's
sickness, and how both Manor and cottage had passed into the hands of
the Lanyans. He mentioned the fatal letter that had caused the squire's
death, and brought it forth, and mentioned both the disappearance of
Mrs. Trembath and Mistress Alice Vivian. If ever Ande swore revenge in
his heart it was during that narrative, in which all the brutal plans of
Sir James Lanyan were revealed in a plain, unvarnished manner. Woe
betide James Lanyan or his, if their paths crossed.
"I am glad he and his are not of my parish," said the old parson; "but
now tell me of your experience and wandering."
The Major briefly narrated his wanderings, to which Ande added a short
sketch of his own, with the exception of his good fortunes in the gold
and diamond regions of Brazil.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the old parson, and then as a sudden thought
struck him. "But now you must find Mrs. Trembath, and I would suggest
that you would find some news of her, no doubt, at Helston, for this is
the Floraday. Ah! there are the bells of old St. Michael, now, and in a
short time the town will be crowded with people from far and near to
keep the old festival. You will get news of her from some one."
"That I will," said the old Major, as he arose from the table. "That I
will; and if I fail there, I shall search through every town of
Cornwall."
The parson insisted upon their going in his own carriage, but the very
thought of news to be obtained in Helston made the old Major impatient
of any delay, and he persisted in going on foot, and so with a friendly
handshake, Major and son left the rectory for Helston.
"Hark'ee, son Ande, injustice shall fall yet and right shall prevail; I
feel it," and the old Major strode on with renewed hopefulness.
Long before they entered the town it had put on its holiday attire.
Homes were decorated, windows garlanded, doors swung wide open, and the
bells of old St. Michael were booming and pealing in the festival which
the abrasion of centuries could not obliterate. From the upper portion
of the town came the pealing of fifes and rattling of drums and the
drawling voices of old men mingled with the more melodious voices of
boys and girls, singing the ancient Hal Lan Tow chant. Up in front of
the Helston Grammar School stand the authorities of the borough
demanding a holiday in behalf of the pupils, and when it is granted,
according to custom, how the lads and young men pour out of the old
dormitory, with hats tossing in the air! Vehicles, from the humble cart
to the emblazoned coach of the gentleman, keep rolling into town, while
every road and footpath is dotted with foot travellers. The streets
begin to crowd more and more. Citizens in the finest broadcloth rubbed
elbows with the humble fustian of farmers, and ladies in the finest
brocades and silks pass, with kindly greetings, the figures of country
maidens and women in humbler attire. Lads are blowing whistles, and
others are shouting to their fellows. But now the noon hour has come,
and from the head of Coinage Hall street come the rolling of drums, the
signal for the commencement of the annual, festival, street dance. In
front of the forming procession are the two town beadles with wands,
fancifully and artistically garlanded with flowers. The wands are the
emblems of their authority. They are the great men of the hour. Behind
them are the drummers, the fifers, and the serpent players, with their
instruments and forms so festooned with flowers and evergreen that it is
almost impossible to see their features. They are in motion. The old
beadles prance in a dignified way in front of the advancing procession,
waving their wands and giving directions in the meantime. The music of
the various instruments are pealing out in one steady strain, punctuated
here and there with the sullen, "boom, boom--boom--boom" of the big
drums, and the "rat a-tat-tat" and occasional roll of the kettle drums.
Now they are dancing, hand in hand in the rear, to the first half of the
melody. Now with a rattle of the lesser drums the second half begins.
The gentleman with the second lady releases her hand and seizes the
first and whirls her out of the procession in a circle and returns. The
action is continued by the second gentleman and so on down the line.
Then again the first refrain is taken up and the procession moves
onward. They are followed by a great crowd of spectators. Now the
beadles have disappeared. They have but entered one of the homes. The
procession of merrymakers follow. The beadles emerge from another door
and on goes the festival parade. Is that customary? Oh, yes. It is one
of the customs of time immemorial, and the party owning any of the homes
thus entered feels highly honoured. Through all the streets wends the
dance and then it is brought to a close by a turn on the Bowling Green.
Now follows a dance of the tradespeople in one of the inns of the town,
while the gentry enter the renowned Angel Inn for a purpose similar.
A porter stands at the door of the hall above the Angel Inn to solicit
sixpences to defray expenses. A dignified, aged man, with hair and beard
neatly trimmed, passes in with the others. He is followed by another, a
younger one, his exact counterpart in height and facial appearance. Both
of them are well tanned by exposure, and their garments seem to be of
foreign make. They are the old Major and his son, Ande Trembath.
"Bless my soul!" exclaims a rugged old fellow, stumping up with a slight
limp in one limb. He stands in front of Major Trembath and stares at
him; then passes a hand, rough and brown and heavy, through his grey
hair, throwing it back from his brow, revealing a long, livid scar along
the forehead.
"Bless my soul! You are my old comrade, Tommy Trembath, or my eyesight
fails me. Is it not so?"
"I am that person," said the Major, smiling, and grasping the extended
hand he shook it warmly. "And how is my Captain Tom Lanyan?"
"I am right well, and I can't say how glad I am to see my old comrade,
once more, back in England. We all thought you dead. You haven't been on
British soil the last eighteen years. Where have ye been wandering all
this time?"
The Major related a part of his adventures briefly.
"The honour of our family is established, Captain Tom; my father was no
traitor and the proof of it is in the hands of the government
authorities at this time," concluded the Major.
"I always knew it; I always knew it," said Captain Tom. "I have always
had my beliefs, and I'm right glad now that they have come true."
"Aye, I know it," said the Major. "You were always my stoutest friend,
in the camp and out."
The two old comrades of the Napoleonic wars talked on and on, while Ande
wandered from them, earnestly scanning the features of those he met, but
none did he recognise. The violins, sweeping into the melody of the
Floraday, announced that the dance was on, but he did not engage in it.
He gazed here and there, vainly endeavouring to behold a face he loved.
He was becoming wearied with his search, when, across the hall, he
noticed an aged, veiled lady and near her another, much younger. It was
the young lady that held him spellbound for a moment. His eyes were
riveted upon her countenance that was in profile. There was a shooting
thrill through his whole system and his blood seemed to be mounting in
great billows to his head. He caught a fuller glimpse of her features,
and then his heart gave one mad leap and apparently stood still for a
moment. Could he ever forget that countenance, pale and yet beautiful as
on the eve, in the long ago, when she had called him her knight. With a
half cry he was up and pushing through the crowd, but, before he reached
the other side, he saw them both pass out of the crowded ballroom. With
a few, rapid steps and bounds he passed down the stairway, almost
knocking over the porter at the door.
In the street without he missed the familiar figure, then his heart beat
joyfully once more, for he caught a glimpse of her entering the Bowling
Green. The aged, veiled lady was not with her. He hastened down the
crowded street and entered the comparatively deserted Bowling Green. He
swept a rapid glance around, but she had disappeared and his heart sank
once more. Then he saw a flutter of lace amidst the leaves of a retired
garden seat. She was standing when he reached her, but perhaps the
record of his diary is better descriptive of the scene that followed.
DIARY OF ANDREW TREMBATH, _Gent_.
_May_ 8th, 1829; _Afternoon_.
I saw my lady in the garden seat arbour, my lady Alice, the love of my
childhood, the ideal of my waking hours, the vision of my wanderings,
and the dream of my slumbers. She whose features were engraven on my
heart by the memory of other years, and around whom clustered the
fondest recollections of youth, was standing gazing at the setting sun
that, as it sank in golden and roseate hues, painting the sea and sky
with the glories of heaven, seemed likewise to retouch, with its
refulgent beams, her curling raven locks and beauteous eyes with
additional splendour. There was a faint flush on her cheeks in the midst
of their pallor, like an early wild-rose nestling by a belated
snowdrift. It seemed to me that she was much taller than formerly. So
tall and majestic indeed was she that I was awed, notwithstanding my
love that had been slumbering for years. I heard her murmur,
meditatively:
"Ah, if he would only come,--my life, my hope!"
My heart smote me with despair and an icy coldness seized me; a lump
arose in my throat that seemed to choke my breathing. My hopes seemed
dashed to the ground, my idol shattered and a mass of chaotic ruin. I
tried to withdraw, but had advanced too far, for she saw me and there
was a slight additional flush on her countenance, and gentle recognition
in her eyes. I advanced to the shadow of the arbour and bowed low,
humbled with my previous thought, yet persistent and determined to know
the truth once and for all.
"Mistress Alice Vivian,--Mistress Alice, I am Andrew Trembath, who has
loved you all these years. You called me your knight once and gave me
reason to hope that you were not indifferent to my feelings for you. But
there was a bar, sinister and heavy, between us,--the stain of treason
against our name. Now all bars have been removed; our name is
honourable; no wealth is a hindrance. You have been my dream throughout
my boyhood days and the star of my wanderings in more mature years, and
I lay my hand and heart at your feet."
She answered not, and I feared to lift my eyes lest I should read what I
half suspected from that brief, murmured exclamation I had heard, that
there was another. Despair seized me at her continued silence.
"You were expecting some one?"
"Yes," she said, meditatively.
"And you love him,--him?" How bold was that question! I know not now
whether I feared more her rebuke or the proof of my agonizing doubt.
"Yes," she said gently, and I thought pityingly.
I arose, staggered, and would have fallen but for the friendly support
of a tree. Better to have perished with brave Dick in the floods of the
Rough Water than to have my love thus wrenched from my heart and my
cherished longing prove a vain delusion. I recollect the substance of my
rambling, half incoherent apology for disturbing her. Oh! How empty
heart, earth, life appeared then! The sun had gone down, and with it the
sun of happiness for me! I turned to go.
"Ande,--Mr. Trembath."
There was something commanding in that tone that I could not resist. I
paused and waited for her to continue.
"Is it not unseemly for old friends to part thus. Here, seat yourself
with me in this arbour." I moodily did so. "I cannot say how glad I am
to greet once more a friend of my childhood days. You have been a true
friend to me." What a bitter mockery those words seemed to me. I was
silent and she continued: "You have been a true friend and I cannot
choose but to speak plainly. But tell me of your life and wanderings."
Little by little I told my story, but I could not refrain from my love
for her, for one was so involved with the other that they could not be
sundered. I told all with the exception of my fortune in the Brazilian
mines. She seemed interested with the interest of a friend. I gazed at
her after my tale was finished, and with the melancholy thought of what
I had aspired to and what I had lost. She smiled, and I thought she was
laughing at my presumption in laying my poor affections at her feet. It
enraged me, and I arose to go.
"One moment," she said; "I have news for you; your mother is found and
your father is with her, but I have other matters to mention."
This was the solitary joy that now filled me and life seemed brighter.
"I was expecting some one this evening."
"Yes," I said, the clouds again coming over my soul; "yes, I know."
"No, you do not know; I was expecting some one, and, as you rightly
surmised, I love him."
"Aye," I murmured, for she seemed cruel, "and you could not love
another?"
"No, no, I could not love another. You would not desire to see me
unhappy and poor?"
"No," I said, doggedly, digging with my heel in the turf.
"Suppose I had the opportunity to marry," she said, mischievously, and
with a merry light scintillating in her eyes, "to marry one who would
give me wealth, happiness, love, and my old home, who took me on a long
ride of twenty miles and told me of these things, would you say, 'No.'"
"No," I said, sadly, "marry where your heart directs you."
"But suppose he was Mr. Richard Lanyan?"
I bounded to my feet as if shot. Oh, what a demoniacal thing is hatred!
Humbled and sad at the loss of her, the thought of one of that accursed
race possessing her seemed like turning my blood from freezing coldness
to boiling heat. My countenance must have been frightful; it terrified
her. I could not speak. She trembled and drew away from me and hastily
said, "But suppose I did not love him?" I was dumbfounded, and she
continued, earnestly, while her eyes beamed with a new light.
"Suppose I did not love him? I was expecting him whom I loved--yes,
loved from girlhood; I mourned him as dead, yet loved him more and more,
and after many years I saw him at a Floraday in the Angel Inn ballroom.
I saw him push through the crowd and I came here expecting him. I love
him and could not love another,--and--and--and--Oh--Ande,--can't you
see?"
Change darkness into sunlight and my feelings can be expressed. The full
light of all seemed to burst upon my vision and dazed me; then as I saw
more clearly, I recollect her stretching her arms toward me, and my
leaping forward to clasp that wavering form.
Here the incident in the diary closes, and it remained for others to
relate what happened afterward. They sat down again in the arbour and
her head was on his shoulder.
"And you did love me, after all," said Ande, and the old, happy, boyish
smile illuminated his features.
"I have always loved you from that moment at the gate of the Primrose
Cottage, so many years ago. Forgive me for the doubt I put you in, but
you looked so doleful at my first words that I could not resist the old
mischievous spirit."
He leaned down and kissed her lips, and there was a long silence,
unbroken save by the chirping birds and rustling leaves. A short time
afterward thither came the veiled, elderly lady, accompanied by the
Major.
"Alice, child, art here? I have found him, Major Trembath, my husband."
"Mother!" joyfully cried the young man, as he flung himself into her
arms.
"How tall you are, son Ande," said his mother, after their first
affectionate greeting; "yes, as tall as your father, and"--here she
turned her gaze upon Alice--"you have found a sister along with myself."
"No, not sister, but my affianced wife," said Ande, proudly.
"And I can call you daughter in reality," said happy Mrs. Trembath, as
she kissed her affectionately.
But now the Bowling Green became crowded with people. The ball was over.
Gentlemen and tradespeople mingled in the sight-seeing of the great
event of that memorable day--the wrestling. A space had been cleared and
roped off in the centre of the Bowling Green, and soon forth came the
gladiators, great, tall, muscular fellows, farmers from the country,
miners from the tin mines, and seamen from Penzance and the Lizard
Point. The men from the Lizard were great, giant-like men over six feet
in stature. The spectators watched with intense interest. Jack Trewlan,
anxious once more for honours, was among them, but went down and out of
the lists in the very first contest. The poorest wrestlers were disposed
of first, and then came men of the first class. Among the latter was a
great Lizard Point fellow,--a veritable Goliath in size. Six feet, six
inches he stood in his stocking feet and weighed fully two and twenty
stone. The measurement of his chest was fifty-three inches, of his waist
thirty-nine, of his arms--the right biceps--nineteen inches, the
left--a trifle less; his limbs were in proportion to his other
measurements. A wild cheer went up from the Lizard men as he stood forth
in the roped arena. He had easily vanquished all his fellows,--the great
Lizard fellows were as wooden men in his powerful grasp,--and he was
entitled to do battle with the champion.
There was another cheer, mainly from the tin miners and farmers, as the
champion of Cornwall, Tom Glaze, the victor of nineteen pitched battles,
came forth to do battle for the twentieth time for the position he held.
The champion was not near so tall or heavy as his opponent, but he was
stoutly and toughly built; his muscles were iron-like with constant
practice, and in his many battles he had gained that dexterity,
cautiousness, tack and trickiness, that was characteristic and essential
to a champion.
"A tough opponent, Tom," said one of the gentlemen.
"The bigger they are the heavier they fall," said Tom, and yet there was
a little doubt in his mind as he sized up the Goliath before him. A
moment they stood, their white duck wrestling jackets in relief against
the background, and then they closed into action. The young Lizard
fellow was cautious and wary. Tom Glaze seized his favourite hold,--the
celebrated Cornish hug, and back and forth they wavered, but the young
Colossus seemed to have his great limbs, like pillars, firmly rooted in
the ground. Glaze was as agile as a panther, twisting and trying trick
after trick. Once he nearly had him on the hip and a hoarse "Huzza" and
"Bravo" went up from many throats,--but it was only a partial success.
The young Lizard fellow now tried to bring into play his great strength,
but every grasp was eluded. Glaze had not been champion so long without
learning many things.
"At un, Tom, thraw un down!" cried the men of Helston and the miners to
their champion.
"At un, lad, heave un over thy 'ead!" exclaimed the Lizard and Penzance
men to their partisan.
"Wait a bit," said a Lizard man, with a knowing wink to a companion,
"wait a bit, till 'e uses 'is strength; our man is only playing with un,
I tell'ee."
"Ah, dear, dear,--us thought Glaze 'ad un then; but 'e's up again."
"Bravo! Bravo!" shouted the men of Penzance and the Lizard, and they
fairly danced with delight, as Glaze went partially down.
"No fall!" bawled the referee.
"Ah was a fall, sure enough!" shouted an excited Lizard fellow; "I seed
un."
"Seed un," snorted Tommy Puckinharn, who was near at hand; "thee doesn't
mean to say thee seed un with they great, fishy eyes of thine, do 'ee?"
"Ah was a fall," persisted the Lizard man.
"'Twasn't," said Tommy.
"Ah was."
"What's the use of saying ah was when ah wasn't," said Tommy,
philosophically.
"'Ere, 'ere, no fighting," said a town beadle, as he came up to preserve
peace.
The wrestlers after a brief rest again approached each other. Now in a
crouching position they circle around each other, each waiting for an
opportunity for a good hold. Suddenly they spring forward like tigers.
It was a collar and elbow hold; they tugged, strained, now pushing, now
pulling. Determination is on the features of each. It is apparent that
the young giant is exerting his strength to the utmost. He is slowly
pushing Glaze backward. Glaze gave way slowly and then with a smile and
a twist and a sudden jerk--
"Huzza! Huzza! Glaze forever!" bellowed the Helston men. The young
Lizard giant had gone, like a crashing oak, to the ground.
"No fall," bawled the referee. The Lizard gladiator had but fallen to
his knees and was soon up again, and the contest was renewed.
"Man alive! Did 'ee see un? 'E went down like a kibbel in a shaft," said
one tin miner to another. The one addressed answered not, but kept
shouting to Glaze:
"The Carnish ankle kick, boy! Kick un in the ankle, and poke un over!"
"Another case of Corineus and the giant Gog-ma-gog,"[8] said Captain Tom
Lanyan to his friend, the Major.
[8] Wrestling match of Corineus, the Trojan, and Gog-ma-gog on
Plymouth Hoe--"Polyolbion," Michael Drayton, 1563-1631.
"Aye, possibly," said the Major.
On went the wrestling match, with the advantage at one moment to Glaze,
at another to the young opponent. Glaze seemed the better in agility and
wrestling tricks, but his skill in these things were offset by the
giant's strength and wariness. The crowd from a wildly shouting mass
became silent, and were alertly watching every movement of the straining
figures. They were at last becoming aware of what Glaze knew for quite a
time. The champion had met his match. He knew it, for with all of his
skill he was unable to overcome his opponent. But what was still more
manifest was that the young Lizard giant, with all of his strength,
could not conquer the old, wrestling hero.
The time was up at last, and there were stout huzzas for both as they
shook hands. The decision went to Glaze, not on falls, but on points, as
he showed the greater skill.
Then Glaze held up his hand for silence and began to speak.
"I want to congratulate my opponent on his stout defence, and say 'e's
the hardest man I ever met in a wrastling match."
There was a roar of cheers, and then when silence came, he continued:
"Men, you knaw the decision is just as to points. My opponent could not
thraw me, as 'ee have seen, and I couldn't thraw 'im. Now, I'm getting
old for the ring, and am about going to quit wrastling. This is my last
battle. I 'ave only waited until I could find the man I couldn't thraw,
and now I've found un, I give to him the championship and all the
honours of the position. What do 'ee say? Is it right?"
There was silence for a moment, and then, after the import of Glaze's
generous offer became more fully understood, there was a resounding
cheer that went up again and again. The people knew that, next to Glaze,
there was none more capable or worthy of defending the championship of
Cornwall than the young Lizard giant.
"Do ye know, lad, who the young Lizard chap was?" asked the Major of
Ande,--but Ande was gone. Both wrestlers had been taken up on the
shoulders of the crowd and carried, with various shoutings, to the Angel
Inn. Ande followed, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd. When
he entered the Inn, he shouted, "Where's the champion?"
"He's up in his room, changing his clothes," said the landlord.
Ande pushed his way up the stairs and opened the door of the room
indicated.
"Dick, Dick, Dick, old fellow!"
"Ande,--why bless----"
The two friends were locked in each others arms. Then came a time of
explanation. Dick had passed through the Rough Waters of the
Lycamahonings safely. He who had breasted the breakers of the Lizard
could easily take care of himself in the rapids. He was wounded, to be
sure, and the struggle through the rapids had exhausted him, but he was
picked up in the river and for some time was in the care of the good
settlers of Kittanning; then he had returned.
"You must come back with me to see my father and mother and my intended
wife," said Ande. Ande insisted, and Dick yielded. They passed out
through the inn and down to the Bowling Green. There were Major
Trembath, Mrs. Trembath and Mistress Alice Vivian, to each of whom Dick
was successively introduced.
"What's wrong, Dick?" asked Ande. Dick was staring with all his eyes at
the Major, and then he burst forth in answer:
"Why, bless me, Ande, if the Major and old Hunter Tom are not the same,
they are brothers."
"The same, Dick, lad," said the Major, smilingly, and Dick again grasped
his hand and shook it warmly.
"I never expected to see you and Ande again, and I can't say how glad I
am that things have turned out as they have," said Dick.
He explained how he had returned to his people, who had long mourned him
as dead, and how overjoyed they were to see him. He was now a
prosperous, independent farmer of the Lizard, and was also preparing to
enter the shipbuilding trade. "Thanks be," said he, in an undertone to
Ande, "to the mines of Sierro Do Frio."