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Updated: May 14, 2025
But I think it was a whisper from the maidservant which caused the farmer to ejaculate, as he helped me to a chair: "And you've walked across Blackadon Down at this hour of night! My word, sirs, and saving your reverence, but you had a nerve, if you'd only known it!" "Why, what's the matter with Blackadon?" asked Mr. Noy sharply. Farmer Menhennick faced him with a deprecatory grin.
Bad characters, sir? I hope not. We keep no highway robbers in this parish." He faced us, rush-lamp in hand, in his great vaulted kitchen, and the light fell on an honest, puzzled face. As for Mr. Noy's face, I regret to say that it fell when he heard this vindication of his flock. "I brought ye into the kitchen, sirs," went on Farmer Menhennick, "because 'tis cosier.
How far could you contrive to travel in this way?" Farmer Menhennick found a seat and sat scratching his head. "Three miles, maybe," he decided at length. "And what sort of road is this when you strike it?" "Turnpike." "Indeed? And where's the pike?" "At Cann's Gate." "That tells me nothing, I'm afraid; but we'll put the question in another form.
He paused, and added, "We are in luck to-night undoubtedly; but I fear I can promise him no such luck as to meet a hearse and headless driver on the way. . . . One moment, Mr. Menhennick! Have you such things as pen, ink and paper, and a farm-boy able to ride?" "Certainly I have, sir."
If you'll wait a moment, sir the coach upset, you say!" He disappeared from the window, and we heard him shouting to awaken the household. By-and-by the door was unchained and he admitted us, exclaiming again, "The coach upset, you say, sir!" "Worse than that: it has been robbed. We keep some bad characters in our parish, Mr. "Menhennick, sir; George Menhennick and this is Tresaher Farm.
She was a Menhennick, tho', from t'other side o' the Duchy a very proud family and didn't mean to dip the knee to nobody, and all the less because she'd demeaned hersel', to start with, by wedding a tailor. But Key Pinsent by all allowance was handsome as blazes, and well-informed up to a point that he read Shakespeare for the mere pleasure o't.
That hearse contained my chest of treasure; and that procession is remembered in the parishes of Talland, Pelynt, Lanreath, and Braddock to this day. I did not see it, alas! Bed claimed the invalid, and Mrs. Menhennick soothed him with her ministering attentions. But Parson Noy reported the day's doings to me in a voice reasonably affected by deep potations at the "Punch Bowl Inn," Lanreath.
"On Blackadon Down, sir," answered Mr. Menhennick. "'Tis an old story that the moor's haunted, and folks have been putting it round that the thing's been seen two or three times lately. But there 'tis nothing to pay any heed to." "Oh, isn't it!" "You understand, sir, 'tisn't a real hearse " "Oh, isn't it!" repeated Mr. Noy in scorn.
But I warn you, sir, that he hunts to-morrow; and if, begging your pardon, you knew the old varmint's temper on a hunting day in the morning " "Hunts, does he? D'ye mean that he keeps a pack of hounds?" "Why, of course, sir!" Farmer Menhennick's accent was pathetically reproachful. "God forgive me! And I didn't know it I, your rector! Your rebuke is just, Mr. Menhennick.
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