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I knaw it was no use askin' old Garge, 'cos he'd pretend not to hear, so I turned to the young womon sittin' opposite, and asked her if she had a match in her pocket. And do you knaw, I declare to gudeness she never said nawthen, not so much as a word!" "Perhaps she was dumb?" Barrant suggested. "Aw, iss, doomb enough then," retorted Mr. Portgartha.
"Just came along to th' Mousehole and ask for Peter Portgartha. There's a great cave at the Mouse's Hole that's what we call it hereabouts, that ain't to be beaten in the whole world. If your good lady's here, bring her with you to see it. There ain't nobody else can show it to her like I can.
If so, Sisily must have left Flint House shortly before her aunt's arrival to catch the returning wagonette at the cross-roads where the young woman was seen waiting by Peter Portgartha. But that plausibly conceived itinerary of events needed the support of proof, and there Barrant found himself in difficulty.
"How do you know that I'm a Londoner?" said Barrant, parrying the latter part of the question. "I can tell a Londoner at once," returned the other. "'Twould be straange if I couldn't. I'm Peter Portgartha. P'raps you haven't heard of me, but I'm well known hereabouts, and if you want to see any of the sights, you'd best coome to me, and I'll show you round." "A guide, eh?"
Peter Portgartha, in the depth of the rumbling wagonette, was paying his tribute to shrinking female modesty as exhibited on Mousehole rocks. After doing this Barrant returned to the empty lounge, where Mrs. Pendleton sat in partial darkness with tearful face.
"I tried her two or three times more, but couldn't get a word out of her. Well, at last I began to get narvous, thinkin' she might be a sperit. So I leant across to her an' says, 'Caan't you say a word, miss? It's only Peter Portgartha speaking, he's well known for his respect for your sect.
"A strange girl!" said Barrant, beginning to feel an interest in the story. "Have you no idea who she was?" "Wait a bit," continued Mr. Portgartha, evidently objecting to any intrusion on his right, as narrator, to a delayed climax. "Well, there we sat, like two ghoostes, till we got to Penzance, but all the time I was thinkin' to mysel' that I'd find out who she was.
No young womon need be frightened of speakin' to Peter Portgartha. And with that she spaaks at last, with a quick little gasp like a sob I'm thinking I can hear it at this minute 'Aw, she says, 'why caan't you leave me alone? 'Never be afraaid, I says, for I have my pride like other folk, 'I'll say no more. Peter Portgartha has no need to foorce his conversation where it ain't welcome."
This startling instance of the stern morality of aristocratic womanhood was unfortunately wasted on Barrant, whose thoughts had reverted to the principal preoccupation of his mind. Mr. Portgartha rambled on. "Aw, but it's strange to be meetin' you like this, in old Garge's wagonette.
Then, as though feeling that this latter statement, in itself, erred on the side of vagueness, he added "to worrit a man." "How many passengers did you have on your last journey in, last night?" "Two on 'em." Mr. Crows, with forefinger and thumb, snuffed his nose as he had previously snuffed the candle in the lamp. "There was Peter Portgartha and a young woman.
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