The moon was rising as I climbed over the stile into the footpath,
and, recognizing my footstep, the old man came forward to meet me,
out of the shadow on the western side of the windmill, to which he
had shifted his watch.

My ill-success, depressing enough to me, he took very cheerfully.

"I was afraid," said he, "you might be foolin' off for the money on
your own account. Gone on a visit, has he? Well, you can hand him
the key to-morrow, with my message. An' now I'll tell you my next
notion. The St. Mawes packet"--this was the facetious name given to
a small cutter which plied in those days between Falmouth and the
small village of St. Mawes across the harbour--"the St. Mawes packet
is due to start at seven-thirty. I won't risk boardin' her at Market
Strand, but pick up a boat at Arwennack, an' row out to hail her as
she's crossin'. She'll pick me up easy, wi' this wind; but if she
don't, I'll get the waterman to pull me right across. Bogue, the
landlord of The Lugger over there, knows me well enough to lend me
ten shillin', an' wi' that I can follow the road through Tregony to
St. Austell, an' hire a lift maybe."

I could not but applaud the plan. The route he proposed cut off a
corner, led straight to Minden Cottage, and was at the same time the
one on which he was least likely to be tracked. We descended the
hill together, keeping to the dark side of the road. At the foot of
the hill we parted, with the understanding that I was to run straight
home to Stimcoe's, and explain my absence at locking-up--or, as Mr.
Stimcoe preferred to term it, "names-calling"--as best I might.

Thereupon I did an incredibly foolish thing, which, as it proved,