Trevennack is. 'Tain't every one as is a Companion of St. Michael and
St. George. The queen made him that herself for his management of the
Vittling." "It's a strange place for a man in his position to spend
his holiday," Le Neve went on, reflectively. "You'd think, coming back
so seldom, he'd want to see something of London, Brighton,
Scarborough, Scotland."

The coastguard looked up, and held his brush idle in one hand with a
mysterious air. "Not when you come to know his history," he answered,
gazing hard at him.

"Oh, there's a history to him, is there?" Le Neve answered, not
surprised. "Well, he certainly has the look of it."

The coastguard nodded his head and dropped his voice still lower.
"Yes, there's a history to him," he replied. "And that's why you'll
always see Trevennack of Trevennack on the top of the cliff, and never
at the bottom.--Thank'ee very kindly, sir; it ain't often we gets a
chance of a good cigar at Kynance.--Well, it must be fifteen year now
--or maybe sixteen--I don't mind the right time--Trevennack came down
in old Squire Tyrrel's days, him as is buried at Mullion Church town,
and stopped at Gunwalloe, same as he might be stopping there in his
lodgings nowadays. He had his only son with him, too, a fine-looking
young gentleman, they say, for his age, for I wasn't here then--I was
serving my time under Admiral De Horsey on the good old Billy Ruffun--
the very picture of Miss Cleer, and twelve year old or thereabouts;
and they called him Master Michael, the same as they always call the
eldest boy of the Trevennacks of Trevennack. Aye, and one day they
two, father and son, were a-strolling on the beach under the cliffs by
Penmorgan--mind them stones on the edge, sir; they're powerful loose--