"Poor lass!" said Geoffrey, as he walked in the direction of Pengelly's
cottage. "They'd have half killed her. I wish I had hit those fellows
harder. It will frighten the poor old woman to death."
He then went on thinking a little about Rhoda Penwynn.
"She must have seen me flourishing my fists," he said, laughing. "I
must have looked gentlemanly. I like that girl somehow, but by George,
she's as proud as a peacock. Pea-hens are not proud. I wonder whether
she will marry that Tregenna after all."
He was brought back from surmise to reality by the sight of the people
clustering about the cottages on the cliff, as he entered the little
town and noted that a variety of ominous scowls awaited him. There were
plenty of women about, and they had stones and stale fish in their
hands. The rough lads had increased in number, and a number of the
fishermen, among whom was Tom Jennen, were standing by the rails as if
to see some expected sight.
"Hang me if I don't think they are getting up a warm reception for this
respectable individual. That's pleasant! A sort of running marine
pillory. What shall I do? Go back?"
"Not this time!" he said, setting his teeth, and taking a very shabby
old black meerschaum from a case; he closed the fastening with a loud
snap, pulled out an india-rubber pouch, filled the pipe, deliberately
walking slowly and calmly along gazing in the most unruffled way in the
faces of the women, and not deigning to notice the rough lads, all of
whom seemed to be only waiting for a signal to begin showering their
missiles upon his head.
Suddenly the great stupid-looking fisher lad whom Geoffrey had knocked
down, strode out in front of him, spread his legs apart, set his arms
akimbo, and pretty well barred the narrow granite-paved way.
A low buzz of excitement arose, the lads grasped their missiles ready to
throw, but the women dropped their arms to their sides or behind them,
as they gazed at the fine, manly young fellow, who looked at them with a
half-mocking smile upon his lip as he passed.
Geoffrey did not flinch. On the contrary, a red spot appeared in each
of his cheeks as he put the amber mouth-piece of his pipe between his
lips, strode forward, laid one strong hand upon the fellow's shoulder,
and, apparently without effort, swung him round.
"Stand aside, you cowardly hound!" he cried aloud; went on three or four
yards, and stopped in front of Tom Jennen and the group of men who stood
staring with all their might.
"Give us a light, fisherman!" said Geoffrey, bluffly.
"Light? Ay, my lad," was the reply, and the rough fellow brought out a
brass box of matches, and handed it to Geoffrey, who coolly opened it,
struck a match, and sheltered light and pipe between the hollow of his
hands, drew vigorously, and puffed out clouds of smoke between his
fingers, after which he returned the box with a bluff "Thanky!"
"Where does Amos Pengelly live?" he said then.
"Up yon turn, ninth house, with a green door," said Tom Jennen.
"There's a gashly old bit o' rock opposite."
As he spoke, he pointed to a narrow steep path which Geoffrey had
passed, and which necessitated his running the gauntlet again, as it
were.
But he was equal to the task.
"I say, fisherman," he said, addressing Tom Jennen, but meaning it for
the group, "If I were you I should use the rope's-end there, and try to
make those cowardly young lubbers men!"
Then thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked coolly back,
looking woman after woman in the face, turned up the passage, and was
gone.
No sooner was his back turned, than the boys uttered a yell, and made as
if to throw, but the women turned upon them fiercely, and Tom Jennen and
his mates cleared the road by making a menacing charge.
"Well, of all the smart young chaps as ever I set eyes on," said one
woman, "he's about the best. Put that there gashly old fish down, Jan
Dwiod, or I'll give you a smack i' th' mouth."
"That's pluck, that is," said Tom Jennen, with his hands very far down
in his pockets. "That's the sorter stuff as men's made on. That's
pluck, that is," he continued, nodding at every one in turn, and then at
intervals repeating the words--"that's pluck!" Geoffrey did not know it
then, but his cool treatment of the party lying in wait for him, had
made him, as it were, a king, and in place of menace on his next
appearance in the streets there was a smile on every lip, and he might
have had the help of all for the holding up of a hand.
Meanwhile he had reached Pengelly's cottage to knock and be told by a
woman next door that the owner was gone out preaching, and wouldn't be
back till night.
"Ask him to run up to Mrs Mullion's when he comes," said Geoffrey, and
the woman promising to convey his message, he went back to his lodgings
to dine and complete his plans.