"Ande, my lad, I have been thinking about you and your unfortunate experience, and have been pondering in my mind, for quite a time, what to do. Your education, already so advanced, must not be slighted. You do not feel like continuing school here?"

It was the parson who was speaking. Parson Trant with Ande was seated in the study room of the rectory, a pretty, half stone, half brick edifice, nearly concealed from the public road by masses of ivy and foliage. It was built for the express use of the parson, and, according to his desires, was as retiring from public notice as a mother bird ensconced in her nest amidst enveloping leaves.

"No, Parson Trant, I think not."

"I thought so; but your education shall not be neglected. Squire Vivian has come to me and realising how bravely you acted in the runaway, and how unjustly you were treated, proposed that you should go to the Helston Grammar School."

Ande's countenance flushed. The parson perceived it and continued.

"Now, Ande, lad, the ill feeling between the squire and you ought to cease. He is good-hearted in the main. He has made ample reparation for the offence of the stocks and he wishes to show his good will and thankfulness for the rescue of his daughter. It is a creditable action of his, and you are not receiving any favour, but a just due. I have talked to your mother of the matter and she is willing for you to go. I have written to the head and he will make room for you. You must not allow any hard feeling on your part to mar the happiness of your mother and the hopes of your best friends. Besides, it is not courteous to refuse to meet the overtures of friendship from one whom you have always esteemed an enemy, especially when that person meets you more than halfway. Your father would not have scorned to do so, and you desire to be as much of a gentleman as your father was."

The youth was won over by the earnest manner and words of his friend, the parson. There was quite a conversation as to the time of entrance, the necessary preparations, and the conclusion of it all was that Ande should go after the Christmas holidays.

His mind delighted with the prospect of attending the Grammar School, and with airy dreams of what that existence would be, he left the rectory and wended his way with light steps down the walk and out on the public road. The sun seemed to smile brighter upon him, the birds to warble sweeter, and all nature seemed to be tinged with the bright hues of his day dreams of the future. There were voices in the distance, boyishvoices, and with laugh and rude joke, a crowd of parish school lads, bubbling with spirits, surged around a neck of woods. The master had given them a half-holiday and they were bound to the Giant's Quoit, a huge rock said to have been used as a plaything by the ancient Cyclops of Cornwall.

"'Allo, come along, Ande, will 'ee?" exclaimed Tommy Puckinharn.

"No, can't go," replied Ande, shaking his head. He must go home and talk with his mother over the great prospects of attending the Grammar School.

"Naw,—'e must ask 'is mawther fust," cried Bully Bob, with a great coarse laugh. The laugh and the reference to his mother stung Ande, but he pretended not to notice.

"'E's getting up too far now in society to 'sociate with we; 'e was calling on squire some time ago, and squire give 'im the seat of honour—fact," said Bob with a wink and a grin that seemed to bring forth additional grins upon the countenances of several of his satellites.

Ande stood for a moment, irresolute, then resumed his way.

"Les give three hoots for the red-'eaded Deane and all his traitor hancestors."

The last was too much for the impatient spirit of the lad to brook. Turning about and with a calm, steady voice, he cast his gauntlet at Bob in the shape of a few words in the dialect, equivalent to a challenge to battle the world over.

"Bob, thee'rt a great, ghastly coward, and thee knaw it."

A wave of redness swept over Bob's face, completely drowning the freckles with which it was freely sprinkled.

"'Ow's that! I 'ave a good mind to scat thee in the chacks for thy himpudence, m'lad." And then in a tantilising manner, as Ande approached, he continued, "Thee art a traitor, for thy faather and grandfaather were traitors. Everybody knaws they were traitors and cowards hout in blooming hold America."

The words had hardly emanated from his lips when—smack!—went Ande's hand on the mouth that had spoken this base libel. A thrill of expectancy passed over all the crowd, a thrill of amazement, awe, vivid interest.

"Damme," said Bob, as he spat his blood and froth from his lips, "I'll make 'ee think Saint Michael's Cormoran had 'ee when I get done weth 'ee. Wilt fight or must I knack 'ee down?"

There was no occasion to ask, for Ande, boiling with rage, was coming at him with a rush, when a deep voice from the side of the hedge cried, "'Old hard, there a-bit."

Tom Glaze vaulted the neighbouring hedge and strode forward into their midst.

"Now, I observed the quarrel and I suppose you 'ave got to fight un out, but 'ee must follow the regular Cornish rules. Thee, Ande, get thy second, and thee, Bob, get thine, wost tha, and I'll be timekeeper and referee."

Glaze led the way over the hedge and the crowd of lads followed, leaping the barrier like a flock of sheep. A circle was formed in true British style. Bob chose one of his satellites, and Ande chose Puckinharn to act as second. The crowd looked on with intense interest. Was not this to be the greatest fight they had ever seen? Who had ever dared to challenge redoubtable Bob before? And to make it additionally interesting, Tom Glaze, one of the most expert wrestlers and boxers of the Duchy, was to be the one in charge. It was of as much moment to them as the battle of Waterloo to their fathers.

The coats of the contestants were cast aside and their sleeves were deftly rolled up by the seconds.

"One, two, three," counted Glaze, and then the battle began.

With a roar, Bully Bob rushed as if to break every bone in his antagonist's body, and truly had the blow fallen the battle would have been a short one, for in age, height and weight Bob had the advantage. Now did Ande feel grateful for the training in the furze croft. Heretofore, it was stand up, take and give, but now, to Bob's intense amazement and disgust, his blow landed on empty air, and as he swept by, carried by his momentum, he received a fierce jab in the ribs that added nothing to his good humour. Observing, after one or two encounters like this, that he had no ordinary battle to fight, he began to be more cautious and his usual confident, sneering face assumed a doubtful air, but he still pressed the conflict. With his sledge-hammer fists he shot out blows that would have felled a much larger opponent, but they were either parried or fell on air. With the litheness and agility of a leopard his opponent was here, there, everywhere, side-stepping and putting in heavy body blows that made Bob gasp with something more than astonishment.

But Ande was growing too confident. Pushing his antagonist in turn, he sought to reach Bob's freckled countenance, fell short, and, to use his own expression, "received a skevern on the noase and eyes that made un see fire."

A yell went up from Bob's satellites. Bob had drawn first blood, and he now pressed the dazed Ande, showering on him a number of blows that he with difficulty avoided.

The mute silence of the crowd was broken by Bob's success. Whooping, yelling, they urged Bob on.

"Give it to the hugly Deane! Knack down the traitor! Hooray! Braavo-o-o!"

Only Puckinharn shouted encouragement to his principal.

"'It un in the ribs, Ande! Thee cussent reach 'is faace. Braavo! Braavo, now he's gurking."[4]

The latter was said in response to a crashing left jab in the ribs that made Bob lower his guard spasmodically. "At un, Ande; his faace now is like that of a roasted herring on a gridiron. Up and at un, lad!" Puckinharn's shouts were swelled by the voices of one or two others who had been silent before.

Bob now sought to end the battle in close quarters, and rights and lefts were freely exchanged. Ande wheeled and his friends were silent in dread for a moment, but only for a moment. Bob staggered back with a heavy elbow jolt in the small ribs, but not before he had given his opponent a blow that sent him to the ground, dazed. Ande's pivot blow had left a bad opening. Bob seeing his opponent down, was rushing in to finish the contest on the ground, apparently, no rules having as yet been devised against it, when Tom Glaze shoved himself between.

"Round's hup."

The boys began to cheer for Bob, thinking that the battle was over and that Bob was a victor, but that worthy silenced them with a growl.

"Shut up, will 'ee; 'e edent licked yet."

His crestfallen adherents were silent. In the meantime some of the crowd had brought water to bathe and refresh the youthful gladiators. An old horse trough was used by Bob and a battered field kibbel[5] by Ande. The first round was manifestly Bob's. He had drawn first blood and had knocked his antagonist down. His face was untouched, while Ande's was a bit drawn; but to judge by the many soft rubs that Bob gave his ribs, he had not come out of the first round unscathed.

As Ande rested on Puckinharn's knee, that worthy gave him sundry pieces of advice.

"Thee must keep on 'itting 'im in the ribs; 'e's taller than 'ee, and thee cussent reach 'is faace; 'e's sore and weak there now; 'e's gurking, I tell'ee."

"Time!" called Tom Glaze, and to the fray again they rushed.

Bully Bob, flattered by his adherents, had regained his confidence. He would finish the battle in close quarters, and rushed again and again, but his wily antagonist was as agile as an eel. Bob paused for breath and glared.

"At un, Bob! Eat un up!"

"I will," said Bob, "as soon as I catch un."

The fighting continued, Ande playing his old tactics—hitting in the ribs and getting away. Puckinharn grinned in delight. Round two was up and honours were equally divided. Bob was filled with wrath.

"See 'ere," he said to Tom Glaze, "I want to knaw if that is fair, for 'e to go running and dodging around like that? Us aren't playing fox and hounds. Why doan't 'e stand up and take and give like a man?"

He was reassured by Glaze, and Glaze's word was law.

"Thee didn't think it was unfair to crack to Ande when he was down, did 'ee,—thee great bucca," exclaimed Puckinharn.

A bucca was the highest title of reproach that Puckinharn had in his vocabulary.

"Silence," said Glaze; "the rules are that all dodging is allowed."

"And wrastling, too," said Bob.

"Aye, and wrastling, too," affirmed Glaze with a peculiar smile.

And so the rounds went on until the seventh, when

Bob being unwary, Ande seized his left guard, gave his ankle a queer, Cornish side kick, and sent in a blow on Bob's jaw that toppled the redoubtable bully over on his back.

"Hooray! Braavo!" exclaimed Puckinharn, swinging his cap up in the air in his delight.

Bob was up the next instant and began to fight in a cautious, crouching attitude. His ribs, black and blue, he sought to shield by drawing his body back and shoving his head and arms forward. There was a better chance, too, for a wrestle, he thought. The small boys held their breath. This was the attitude Bob always assumed when meeting hard opponents. Rumour had credited him with throwing a sailor in this manner. The bully was at bay and would fight hard. Now, Ande, you have need of all your skill, so hardly earned in the practice bouts with Tom Glaze. There was no further chance at Bob's ribs, and his head seemed perfectly guarded. They circled warily around each other seeking for an opening. Then, like a flash came Ande's chance, the opportunity that he would not let slip. "If 'ee ever get that chance and take it, it will put thy opponent down and hout sure," Glaze had told him time and time again, in their practice bouts.

Bob made a slight pass with his left. The next instant his wrist was grasped in an iron grip. Up over his neck Ande raised Bob's arm, then bending his back he grasped with his other hand his opponent's right knee, and putting forth all his strength, Bob went up in the air as if hoisted with a derrick.

"A clinch! a clinch!" shouted some, and it was a clinch in which one did all the clinching.

Bob struggled manfully, but the grip that had stopped the squire's runaway mare could not be unloosened. Up, up, up, went Bob, and then with a heave the form of the bully, like a comet, went over his opponent's head and over the heads of the close-pressing ring-siders, his foot kicking off the cap of one of the lads in his involuntary flight. There was a thud and a cry. The battle was ended. Bully Bob had a broken collar-bone, and his prestige was forever terminated.

Trembath was the hero of the hour. Tom Glaze was jubilant and slapped the victor on the back.

"Thee did what I telled thee, and I couldn't do un better myself. Thee'lt be champion of the county yet. Thee make off home now, for thy mother will be looking for 'ee, and I'll see to the tother chap."

Ande started homeward. The boys still remained around the fallen bully, or in little knots by themselves discussed the great battle. Then a short distance away were seen the approaching figures of the squire and parson, and the spectators melted away like magic, until only Tom Glaze remained.

"Ah, Tom, a bad day's work, inciting the young to fight," said Parson Trant, shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Well, lads will fight and sometimes it does them good," said the squire, who loved the old British game of boxing, and felt like supporting Glaze, who was a favourite of his.

"A bad thing, stirring up the worst passions," replied the parson.

"I doan't knaw about that," sturdily replied Glaze, encouraged by the squire's words. "This was a thing that 'ad to come off, and seeing as 'ow the little one 'as given the big un a much needed dressing down,—I think it proper, sir," and Glaze touched his cap.

"Another case of the valiant Cornishman and the giant Cormoran, eh, Glaze?" said the squire, laughingly.

"Aye, sir, 'tez so," said Glaze, as they passed on.

CHAPTER XII

There is activity among the male population as well as among the housewives. Small lads run hither and thither crying shrilly, "Pennorths of Christmas," and exhibiting evergreen, holly and mistletoe for sale. The farmers are preparing bands for saluting the apple trees. Youngsters are planning schemes for watching the oxen kneel. Singers are practising, night after night, the Christmas carols or "curls." Youths are preparing for the Christmas play of St. George and the Turk.

Ande had been to Helston with the donkey and cart to purchase needed supplies, and in returning along the "Red Revver" road was allowing the animal to take his own gait.

"'Allo, Ande, we want 'ee for St. George in the Christmas play," said a voice from the hedge. It was Puckinharn.

"How art tha, Tommy! Up with 'ee and 'ave a ride. Who's in the company?" said Ande, all in one breath.

"We doant knaw as yet, but thee must be St. George, that's settled," said Tommy, as he clambered up into the cart.

"Well, if I'm to be St. George, we had better begin soon. Suppose we meet in our furze croft and get down to business this afternoon."

"The very place," assented Tommy.

The donkey was hurried on, while both lads planned and talked. That afternoon saw a crowd of the village boys assembled in the rough highland, "the croft," and after much debate the parts were assigned and practising begun.

Christmas eve came at length. The moon shone serenely from between broken clouds. The air was clear, crisp and cold, and made great coats a necessity to comfort. The trees had lost their leafy robe, and now stood shivering or shaking in envy of their evergreen brethren, while all the green hedges had aged into withered brown. There was a flash of light from the parish church tower, and then the single pencil of light was increased by another and another, until every window of the old structure was ablaze with illumination in honour of the coming birthday of the Nazarene. Light after light appeared in cottage of peasant and mansion of gentleman, as if an answer to the summons of the old church to do honour to Him who is the "light of the world." Then on the night air came the song of choirs and carol of singers, mingled with the strains of musical instruments. From cottage and hall sounded the merry noise of revelry, the hearty laugh and general good cheer.

Forth through the night, bubbling with good spirit and anticipated merriment, stalked the St. George Band of Christmas players, adorned in such a brave manner as even to make the redoubtable British champion, had he lived to see it, green with envy. What variable garments! What coats adorned with tinsel, red, and gold, and striped! What shields of brilliant paper or tin, spears of warlike hickory, and swords—not near so sharp as the Saracen blade, but still as sharp as wood could be whittled with a jack-knife; and caps of tall, many-hued tinsel; had the real St. George worn one of them the terrible, ripping, snorting, steam-breathing dragon would have bellowed in anguish, and have fallen down in a dead faint. But they were good enough for the occasion and their very form was sacred by ancestry.

House after house was visited and the fun grew fast and furious. At very few places were they not given a ready entrance and hearty welcome.

"Now les to the squire's!" exclaimed one, and the proposition was hailed with delight. The distance was not far, and the time was shortened by conversation and by a little warlike practice between St. George and his Mohammendan enemy, the Turk, in which practice the Turk received a terrific, broad sword slash, that made him pucker up his face like the picture of the Saracen's head at the village inn. The Turk was not gifted in the Turkish language, but made up for it by giving vent in broad Cornish dialect to his feelings.

"Damme, Ande, ef thee'rt going to cut my nose off my faace and scat my brains out, I'll be a Turk no longer," and Tommy Puckinharn flung down his sword in disgust, and stalked on ahead of the company. With one hand nursing his injured olfactory and the other thrust in his breast, and meekly followed by his fellows, he looked like Napoleon and army on the retreat from Moscow. Some one picked up the Turk's weapon and immediately a discussion arose. No one but a knight must carry a sword in the company. Sword bearing was the special prerogative of a knight and "tother chaps must carry spears." The sword bearer then pleaded to be made a knight, and if Tommy wouldn't be the Turk to install him in his place. But that was what Tommy didn't want. He had no desire of being turned out of the second place in the company, even if he did throw down his weapon, and so he returned and indignantly protested. When a soldier loses his sword and another finds it, he ought to return it, was the Turk's argument.

St. George settled the affair by raising the sword finder to the rank of a squire. The bravery of the Turk in their late encounter, and his heroic courage on other occasions, merited that he should have an armour bearer, a squire, to be his constant attendant. The sword finder was elated and, somehow or other, the pain in the Turk's nose was healed by this new dignity that his valour had added to his reputation. There was no more practice in the warlike arts, for the Manor gates were passed and the great house was near.

The numerous chimney pots sent up various curling clouds of smoke that glistened palely in the moonlight. The diamond-shaped window panes gleamed and scintillated with the illumination within, except where a dark shadow of holly wreath obstructed the light. The broad verandas were festooned with ropes of evergreen. Up the broad steps strode the players and, after a few mute looks and a little whispered colloquy, the herald lifted the rapper and sent a peal through the old building that would have been certainly heard at any other time but Christmas eve.

Within there was the noise of frolick. The servants were haw-hawing in the kitchen department over some joke or amusement, and the occasional thump, thump of feet in measured time indicated a dance, perhaps between the cook and hostler. The squire's hall was replete with good cheer. Wreaths of evergreen inter twined with sprigs of holly were hung at regular spaces on the waxed, panelled walls. At one end was a large life-sized painting of George the Second. Squire Vivian had a great reverence for the king that had secured to his family the estate of Trembath. His father had served King George faithfully in the east, and there had ever been a strong friendship between the Vivians and the Hapsburgs. At the other end of the hall hung the picture of the squire's father and, although in warlike garb, yet had a friendly smile on his features as if in greeting to His Majesty, the King, on the opposite wall. In the centre of the side wall was the great open fireplace, the grate having been removed to make room for the great yule block that was kindled every Christmas eve with almost religious ceremonies, and near its warm glow was the form of the squire, seated in his great armchair. He looked the very impersonation of Father Christmas, minus the beard. Near him were two or three of his friends from the east, men of his own age, who seemed to enjoy his conversation and laughed as merrily as himself. A whist party was in progress on the other side of the fireplace, while down the long room, here and there, were scattered various groups engaged in various Christmas games. The hall floor was not carpeted, for the squire scorned such modern improvements as innovations and desired nothing better than the old-fashioned waxed floors. Neither did he see fit to remove any of the emblems of his father's predecessors, for above the flaming firelog stretched the high oak mantel, and carved in relief on its shiny surface was the figure of a Lyonnese warrior galloping amidst devouring ocean waves.

The squire was just chuckling over a young lady's mishap in getting under the mistletoe when the herald of the St. George company, tired of raising the great knocker, pushed open the door and entered the hall. There was a thump on the floor to demand attention, and then in as authoritative voice as he could command came the heralding of the brave gallants without.

There was silence in the hall for a moment and then the squire spoke out with a cheery welcome, for he heartily appreciated the amusement.

"Bring in your gallant crew. Ho, there, children, move to one side and give them room for fair play." This latter to various groups of merrymakers in the hall.

The whist players dropped their cards, the hall occupants withdrew to either side, and the elderly parties around the squire ceased their conversation to give full attention to the antics of these new merrymakers.

The herald bowed to the squire and company and waved his wand, and in capered a queer, uncouth figure in mask and flowing wig and whiskers. The young children burst into peals of laughter at his grotesque movements, and he had to uphold his authority and gain silence for himself by thumping the floor vigorously with his tall staff. He had a right to demand attention, for he was Father Christmas; his round, cheery face proclaimed it, even without his speech which he proceeded to make.

Father Christmas executed a few joyous capers, but was interrupted by the herald who, with a little fear on his countenance, stated:

"Father Christmas, thee must stand aside a bit for I think I see an enemy of thine and of our good Christmas cheer a-coming."

Father Christmas moved aside with a shake of his hoary locks and muttered:

All eyes were fastened on the door through which the valorous Turk, in his green turban, was entering, his face a little more ferocious by the wound received from St. George's sword in the contest on the public road. The Saracen has some difficulty in expressing himself in good English, but that was to be attributed to his Turkish training. Flourishing his sword he began:

The herald had spoken in response to his heathen jargon, and the Saracen scowled upon him hideously and answered:

The Turk stalked around in brave manner, when a new arrival, the redoubtable St. George, entered. A cheer went up from the younger element of the squire's visitors, and even the whist players clapped their hands, for the Turk was no favourite, and did they not love St. George, the patron saint of England? St. George bows to the spectators, and by his speech does not appear very modest over his great victories.

The Turkish knight drew his sword and with a warlike pass at St. George, hurled his defiance:

The squire smiles, for there is a strong Cornish accent in the Turk's tone, notwithstanding his efforts to conceal it. But now St. George also has drawn his sword and with the threat,

the contest begins.

The servants have opened the door leading to the kitchen department and now stand crowding in the entrance. Little ones that had been taken to bed by their nurses were brought down to see the fun. Fair play and a clear field, the squire had said, and so the centre of the great room was theirs. And how they did fight! Surely no earthly battle was like it. In no battle was so much blood shed and so many hard blows delivered, at least so thought the Turk in reference to the latter, for he was battered from head to foot with side blows and over cuts, jabs, and slashes, until he ardently wished for the time to come when he must fall down dead.

The squire and the others applauded when a good blow was given or one neatly parried. The Turk at length steadily gave way, to the delight of the little ones among the spectators. One little maid in her exuberance of joy danced up and down clapping her hands and saying, "The old Turk is going to be whipped, and I'm glad." At length, under a shower of blows, the Turk fell to the ground amid the plaudits of the onlookers. St. George bends over him to see the extent of his wounds, and the Turk whispers:

"Ande, I guess I 'ad better stay killed this time."

But St. George is inexorable. Standing erect he speaks:

The Turk arises on one knee and continues the conflict, but not for long, as he is again stricken down and becomes at once a suppliant.

Bold St. George had no idea of mercy toward the Turk, and so he spurs him once more to the conflict.

Again the contest raged, the Turk, seeking to save himself as much as possible from the onslaughts of St. George, fights with a good bit of desperate valour, but down he goes again. St. George shakes his head as if it were all over and then cries:

Why he should be so solicitous for the welfare of the Turk as to seek a doctor can hardly be told, unless for the pleasure of fighting with him again. The doctor is not long in appearing from the hall entrance. With three-cornered hat perched above an enormous wig and painted face, there was a professional air about him. With a leer and a funny grimace at the crowd he began his doggerel speech.

St. George stalked toward him and asked, "What can you cure? Can you cure this man?"

The spectators crowded forward. Could the doctor cure the slain Turk? Oh, yes. How wisely he goes about his work! He tries one remedy after another, but of no avail. The Turk had told St. George in their last encounter that he was going to fight no more. He wasn't going to fight again, but to sham being dead, and then they would have to bring on the other players. He was shamming wonderfully well, until even the squire thought he was possibly badly hurt. The doctor knew different, however, for he had been posted by St. George, and so he drew from his pocket a bottle of exceedingly strong smelling salts. He had purloined it from his mother's bureau. This would make him well, he averred. St. George had kindness enough to hold the Turk's head down, while the doctor was administering the dose. Three great strong whiffs entered the Turk's nostrils, and seemed to enter every part of his head like the stinging of a million hornets. He would have gotten up then and there and fought the whole crowd had not St. George held his head, and the doctor thought he had better have the full dose.

"Achew! Achew! Achew!"

St. George let go the Turk's head, and the doctor nimbly stepped aside; the Turk with all the wrath of his race in his face, grasped his sword and fought like a demon for a few moments. His being killed three times seemed to increase his power. Then the natural superiority of Ande in the use of the sword began to assert itself, and the Turk thought that the sooner he fell the better, and accordingly did so. The old doctor slowly advanced and shook his head, as if all his skill was of no avail to resuscitate the slain Saracen.

The doctor waved his staff, and in capered the dragon, a sort of hobble horse made of hoops under distended canvas, and worked by an inside performer. The great snapping jaws and staring eyes scared the little ones, but they laughed when they found it was only the slain Turk that he wanted. The unfortunate Turk, grasped by those rigorous jaws, was dragged from the hall.

The entertainment ended with the passing of the Christmas box, into which each one threw an offering, and as if in thankfulness for the amount the Christmas band, Turk, and dragon as well, mingled in a ludicrous dance, after which the whole crew was regaled with hot egg-nogg and cake.

In the midst of the conversation and laughter new sounds penetrated the hall from without.

Some of the hall occupants rushed to the hall windows to see the singers. There in the pale moonlight were singers from the parish church and neighbourhood. They were singing, accompanied with the music of clarionet and serpent players. After the anthem the squire sent the old steward out to bid the choristers enter. He did so by saying to the choristers: "The squire wants hall hangels to come in." They entered and continued singing.

In the midst of the singing the Turkish knight leaned over to St. George and muttered:

"Ande, I'll be a Turkey snipe no more, when thee art St. George."

"Why?" said Ande, "and for goodness sake why do 'ee call it 'Turkey snipe'? Did 'ee notice the squire smile? A Turkish knight, you mean."

"Aye, I forgits the name; but 'ee nearly beat my insides out with thy old wooden sword, so 'ee did,'" growled Tommy Puckinharn, softly.

Ande gazed at the Turk's melancholy countenance, and chuckled in amusement.

"It was all in the play, Tommy, and if 'ee didn't fight so hard and I didn't cut and slash as I did, perhaps we wouldn't 'ave the cake and good stuff that we are eating here now," said Ande, at which reply Tommy seemed some mollified.

The "curl-singers" had finished their anthems and were regaled in the same manner as the Christmas players, and there was a lull in the amusements, when the great knocker on the hall door sounded the presence of a new visitor.

CHAPTER XIII

"'Tis Uncle Billy, the droll teller," said the squire to one of his eastern friends in a side tone, and then to the new arrival, "Welcome to the Manor Hall, Uncle Billy, and to our Christmas cheer. Come nigh the fire and get thy fingers loosened up, for we must have a tune to-night."

Uncle Billy, the droll, sat himself near the yule log and, while he warmed up his cold hands, entered into conversation with the squire and one or two of his elder friends.

The droll teller of Cornwall was a privileged character in the olden times. Somewhat embodying the profession of the minstrel and the story-teller, he was always assured of a ready welcome. For ages the western part of Saxon England terminated at the River Tamar, and the people west of that stream, girt with hills and wild moors, had little communication with the outside world. Hence when the profession of the minstrel began to decline in the days of Elizabeth, this section gave it a ready welcome and asylum. The lack of railways and newspapers gave the droll the profession of a news courier, and at any house he tarried he was regarded with favour and reverence. How they stood around him in the evening hours, in cottage or hall, and listened with eager interest to the news of the great outside world, and how with awe upon their faces they listened to the tales of Tregeagle, the giant Cormoran of St. Michael's Mount! Many knew the tales, but none could tell them with the vivid realism of the droll, and then how the eyes of the youths would flash at the tales of King Arthur, the greatest king of the Cornish line.

Of all droll tellers, Uncle Billy was the most loved and the most famous. He could enter into the cottages of the common people and be one of their midst, speaking in their own dialect, or could associate with the gentry speaking in language as good as their own, and at times better. He was not only gifted with oratorical and musical power, but also had a fund of information in legendary lore and was as familiar with the tales of Rome and Greece as a university scholar. Some even went so far as to say that he was a scholar of Eton College when he was a lad, had been disappointed in a love affair and had drifted away from all who knew him in consequence. At times, after some legend told with great power, some of his friends among the gentry would remonstrate with him on his wandering life and offer to assist him into some greater sphere of usefulness, in better keeping with his education.

"Sphere of usefulness," Billy would respond. "What profession is more useful than that of the minstrel, or as people call me, the droll? I have brought happiness into cottage and hall and wiped the tears from sorrowing eyes with fun and laughter. I have made the youth's heart burn with high purpose to emulate the heroic deeds of old, and I have implanted thoughts of soberness in the giddy headed. What could be more useful? And could I have a happier occupation were I in the position of a servant? No, I prefer the old independent life of the droll; and as for my high education," Billy would always stop here, and with a funny twinkle in his eyes and dropping into the language of the country clout say, "I beant much of a scholard."

"Well, Billy, give us a song," said the squire, seeing that the droll teller had become sufficiently thawed out to finger the harp.

"Or a story," said a relative of the squire.

"Tell us of the oxen kneeling on Christmas night," piped in a young, shrill, boyish voice.

"Les have Duffy and The Devil," said one of the "curl" singers.

"Or the Cornish Tale of King Arthur," said another.

"Well, well, one at a time. Suppose I sing ye one of the old Christmas songs first," responded Uncle Billy, and tuning up his harp he swept with rapid, light fingers the opening bars of "The First Good News That Mary Had." This was followed by "I See Three Ships Come Sailing In," and was greeted with great applause at the close.

The old butler brought in a steaming bowl of egg-nog punch which he placed on the table near the harper's chair; after refreshing himself the droll began the tale of Duffy and the Devil, telling it, as was his custom, partly in verse to the accompaniment of the harp, and partly in prose.

THE TALE OF DUFFY AND THE DEVIL.