A Cornish "van" is a miracle on wheels; but we're told that the real,
genuine article, like Penaluna's, which still covers its five miles in
one hour and a quarter, is getting rarer and more rare. Penzance and
Helston, Truro and Redruth, and most of the market towns are visited
on market days by newly-painted antiquities on wheels. They line up a
street, or a square, for a few hours, and then disappear again until
the next market day. The better class machine is a "Royal Mail," or a
"Standard," a "Comet," or some such swagger thing; but "Penaluna's van"
has a first-grade certificate in the miracle line. Rail and motor-cars
have thinned out this ancient sort of vehicle pretty considerably.
Mrs. Penaluna runs a refreshment house six miles from a market town,
and Mr. Penaluna is the carrier by descent. For three generations
the Penalunas carried whatever there was to carry, and it seems that
when one machine wore out, another was built after the same pattern,
and then another, and another, so that Penaluna's van is now pretty
much the same as its predecessors, and the type has been preserved in
spite of steam and petrol. Mr. Penaluna's van went to the market town
twice a week, and Mr. Penaluna's motto was to look after his parcels,
and let passengers take care of themselves. Our traps were amongst
the rest of the bales and boxes and parcels, "stowed away" according
to the carrier's idea of the fitness of things. We looked inside,
and said we'd walk to the town later in the day. We didn't see much
accommodation for passengers. We were mistaken. One woman after another
got into the van with baskets of dairy produce and things, and settled
themselves somehow. The van was canvas-covered, and its sides bulged,
so we thought it must be full. We didn't understand. People came along
with more baskets and got in, so Guy said they must be sticking to the
roof, feet upwards, like flies. Every moment we expected to see the van
come apart, and let its contents into the road; but it didn't, and held
together by force of habit, we supposed. Time was up, and we thought
the good Mr. Penaluna would start, but he was in no hurry; there was
a regular customer to come, and she always came last. Somebody did
come--a crowning glory of twenty stun--with a girl by her side carrying
things. The "regular" waddled up, and said it was warmish, and hands
were spread out to take in things and help the lady when she was ready,
and Mr. Penaluna was behind to give a helpful push. The lady with
liberal breadth of beam and no featherweight disappeared, inch by inch,
and we stood by expecting to hear shrieks from the inside victims. Only
nothing of the sort happened, and Mr. Penaluna closed the door with a
bang and the proud air of a railway porter, and the living purgatory on
wheels waltzed away. Mr. Penaluna got up on a swinging knifeboard, and
cracked his whip in a professional way about the ears of the wiry pair
of horses in front.
Guy asked Mrs. Penaluna whether she thought that the women inside would
come out alive? which seemed to amuse her. She said Penaluna might
hap to pick up one or two more on the road. "There's always room for
one more in Penaluna's van," said she, with a grand sweep of the arm,
indicating that a good slice of creation might be carried to market
twice a week, and no mistake about it.
The Bookworm was under a promise not to go past the first milestone,
but to sit on it, and wait until we overtook him. Guy said we needn't
hurry, as he saw him sneak a book into his pocket, and he wouldn't know
how the time passed until the sun went down.
"If the little beggar can lose himself, he will," said Guy, jumping
on a hedge and looking round. Then he shouted "Coo-e-e-e-y!" and an
answer came a few yards off, where the Bookworm was sitting on a heap
of stones chatting to a man with his sleeves turned up, and who was
the parish stonebreaker. This Mr. Stonebreaker worked in a disused
quarry, wherein he was sheltered from all winds, and had for company
a sleek-looking donkey, which he rode to and fro morning and evening.
The Bookworm struck the place just about luncheon-time. The man had
taken off his wire goggles, pulled out his pasty, and the donkey's head
rested on his shoulder, waiting for the two ends of the pasty to be put
into its mouth. Mr. Stonebreaker rolled up his jacket for the Bookworm
to sit on, and offered him a bit of pasty; and when we joined the party
of three, they made a very pretty picture. The man was a droll fellow
and set the Bookworm laughing, and the animal joined in in its very
best style. The Bookworm rose and shook hands with his newly-found
friend.
"Wasting the poor devil's time, and never tipped him, I'll bet," said
Guy, with an air of disgust.
"I couldn't," replied the Bookworm, the idea that Guy thought him mean
creeping over him. "The man treated me as an equal, and played the
host, and how could I tip him?"
"You have sold the good name of every tourist for evermore," said Guy,
hastily; and before we knew what he was up to, he bolted back to the
old quarry.
"Catch!" shouted he, spinning a coin towards the man.
"Thank'ee kindly, but what be un vur?"
Then Guy made a speech, and the man laughed, and returned the coin,
without any sign of displeasure.
"I'll be hanged if a coin ever came back to me in this way before. I
shall keep it for luck," said Guy.
"Ef you bain't in a hurry I'll tell 'ee a story," said the man, as
leisurely as though he were lord of the manor.
"I shall be taking up your valuable time," said Guy.
"Never mind me: we can afford it, caan't us, old 'un?" (stroking the
donkey's head). "Us can al'ys find time when we do work by the day."
Then he began.
"You doan't know our Passun, s'poase? Well, then, tedn't 'bout he, but
the wan avoor, who had a purty field ov corn wan year, sure 'nuff,
and he hired Jim Tredinnick to come over and drash un. Now, Passun was
writing es sarmon, and could heer Jim's drashal going wan, du, dre,
like a church bell tolling for a burying. 'This will never do,' saith
Passun to hisself, and down he goes to the barn, and Jim was there
making believe to sweat a leak, and the ould drashal was going wan, du,
dre, like the church bell. 'The man'll eat up the vally of the corn in
the drashing ov it,' said Passun, as he went back to his room. Now,
whether Passun falled asleep, or dramed weth his eyes wide open, or
whether it was rale, I dunno, but the piskie that used to belong to the
place stood avoor him weth es drashdals over his shoulder. Now Passun
wasn't proud, and telled him about Jim Tredinnick, how he was hired by
the day and his meat to drash the corn in the barn, and 'I shall be ate
out ov house and home,' said Passun, 'he is that slow.'
"Then the little man laughed, and took the drashels off his shoulders,
and began to beat on the floor, stroke by stroke with Jim Tredinnick
in the barn, and he made a tune ov it, like this: 'By the day, by the
day, by the day-day-day. By the day, by the day, by the day-day-day.'
'Twas slow music, sure; but 'twas what Jim Tredinnick was making in the
barn. Then the little man changed it, and worked his drashels lively,
and the tune he made was like this: 'By the job, by the job, by the
job-job-job; by the job, by the job, by the job,' as quick as you
plaise. Then Passun rubbed es eyes, and went over to the barn, and made
a fresh bargain with Jim Tredinnick, and his corn was oal drashed that
very night."
"Well?" said Guy, interrogatively.
"If I had been breaking these stones by the job you wouldn't have heard
this story," said the man, with a humorous twist of his mouth.
"You're a genius," said Guy, shying a shilling at him, and running away
at top speed.
"The fellow is a millionaire," said Guy, overtaking us. "I shall never
be able to say I haven't met a rich man. I had to shy the coin at him,
and I don't know now whether he'll trouble to pick it up."
"He's a gentleman, and his donkey knows it," said the Bookworm; and it
was his last word on the subject.
[Illustration: CARN BREA.]