It baffled him the more because, of his own sort, he had a strong
sense of humour. It was told of Mr. Pennefather, for instance, that
during his clerkship at Penzance the Custom House there had been
openly defied by John Carter, the famous smuggler of Prussia Cove;
that once, when Carter was absent on an expedition, the Excise
officers had plucked up heart, ransacked the Cove, carried off a
cargo of illicit goods and locked it up in the Custom House; that
John Carter on his return, furious at the news of his loss, had
marched over to Penzance under cover of darkness, broken in the
Custom House and carried off his goods again; and that Mr.
Pennefather next morning, examining the rifled stores, had declared
the nocturnal visitor to be John Carter beyond a doubt, because
Carter was an honest man and wouldn't take anything that didn't
belong to him. The Riding Officer thought this a highly amusing
story, and would often twit Mr. Pennefather with it. But Mr.
Pennefather could never see the joke, and would plead,--
"Well, but he _was_ an honest man, wasn't he?"
"That's the way with you Cornish," repeated Mr. Smellie; "and after a
time one learns to feel it in the air, so to speak."
The little Collector looked up from his ledger, pushing his
spectacles high on his brow, and glanced vaguely around the office.
"Now, for my part, I detect nothing unusual," said he.
"Furthermore," the Riding Officer went on, still tapping his boot,
"I met a suspicious-looking fellow yesterday on the Falmouth Road; a
deucedly suspicious-looking fellow; a fellow that answered me with a
strong French accent when I spoke to him, as I made it my business to
do.
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