Polwhele, that always visited
Plymouth once a year for a week's shopping. Having all these parcels
to bring home, Mrs. Polwhele had crossed over by a waterman's boat
two hours before, packed the coach as full as it would hold, and
stepped into the Ferry Inn for a dish of tea. "And glad I am to be
across the river in good time," she told the landlady; "for by the
look of the sky there's a thunderstorm coming."
Sure enough there was, and it broke over the Hamoaze with a bang
just as Captain Bligh and his friend put across in the ferry-boat.
The lightning whizzed, and the rain came down like the floods of
Deva, and in five minutes' time the streets and gutters of Torpoint
were pouring on to the Quay like so many shutes, and turning all the
inshore water to the colour of pea-soup. Another twenty minutes and
'twas over; blue sky above and the birds singing, and the roof and
trees all a-twinkle in the sun; and out steps Mrs. Polwhele very
gingerly in the landlady's pattens, to find the Highflyer ready to
start, the guard unlashing the tarpaulin that he'd drawn over the
outside luggage, the horses steaming and anxious to be off, and on
the box-seat a couple of gentlemen wet to the skin, and one of them
looking as ugly as a chained dog in a street fight.
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