time to the coast and a broader path above the cliffs. The air was
warm, and he climbed in such hurry that the sweat soon began to drop
from his forehead. By the time he reached the cliffs he was forced to
pull a handkerchief out and mop himself; but without a pause, he took
the turning westward towards Troy harbour, and tramped along sturdily.
For his mind was made up.

Ship's-chandler Webber, of Troy, was fitting out a brand-new privateer,
he had heard, and she was to sail that very week. He would go and offer
himself as a seaman, and if Webber made any bones about it, he would
engage to put a part of his legacy into the adventure. In fact, he was
ready for anything that would take him out of Porthlooe. To live there
and run the risk of meeting Ruby on the other man's arm was more than
flesh and blood could stand. So he went along with his hands deep in
his pockets, his eyes fastened straight ahead, his heart smoking, and
the sweat stinging his eyelids. And as he went he cursed the day of his
birth.

From Porthlooe to Troy Ferry is a good six miles by the cliffs, and when
he had accomplished about half the distance, he was hailed by name.

Between the path at this point and the cliff's edge lay a small patch
cleared for potatoes, and here an oldish man was leaning on his shovel
and looking up at Zeb.

"Good-mornin', my son!"

"Mornin', hollibubber!"

The old man had once worked inland at St. Teath slate-quarries, and made