"But, my love, the thing's impossible!" cried Parson Polwhele.
"There's no Frenchman in Cornwall at this moment, unless maybe 'tis
the Guernsey merchant or some poor wretch of a prisoner escaped from
the hulks in the Hamoaze."
"Then, that's what these men were, you may be sure," said Mrs.
Polwhele.
"Tut-tut-tut! You've just told me that they came across the ferry,
like any ordinary passengers."
"Did I? Then I told more than I know; for I never saw them cross."
"A couple of escaped prisoners wouldn't travel by coach in broad
daylight, and talk French in everyone's hearing."
"We live in the midst of mysteries," said Mrs. Polwhele. "There's my
parcels, now--I packed 'em in the Highflyer most careful, and I'm
sure Jim the Guard would be equally careful in handing them out--you
know the sort of man he is: and yet I find a good dozen of them
plastered in mud, and my new Moldavia cap, that I gave twenty-three
shillings for only last Tuesday, pounded to a jelly, quite as if
someone had flung it on the road and danced on it!"
The poor soul burst out into fresh tears, and there against her
husband's shoulder cried herself fairly asleep, being tired out with
travelling all night.
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