CHAPTER XXIX

TOM GLAZE TO THE RESCUE

"Oh, here's to the ale, The merry King Ale, It makes one jolly Though home comforts fail; We'll swing and we'll sing, Merry as a king, The tankard we love For the joy it'll bring."

Chorus.

"Then swing tankard round With ale pale or brown, We'll clunk and we'll clunk Till we clunk un all down! Down! Down!

"King George, rich and hale, Is naught to King Ale, He reigns and cares not For the poor man's wail, But jolly King Ale Makes sorrow to fail, Huzza for the tankard Of rud, brown or pale."

Loud and boisterous came the roaring voices of half-drunken tipplers from behind the green doors of an ale-house in the upper part of Falmouth. At the close of each chorus there was a thumping of tankards and fists upon the tables within that made the midnight hour a perfect babel of sounds.

"That's Tom Puckinharn's voice, I could swear to un," said a tall, well-built man, as he paused on the pavement without. He was talking to himself and evidently referred to one voice louder than the others, leading the chorus. A frown swept over his rugged features.

"Here I be following 'im all the evening from tavern to tavern and just missin' 'im at every place, and he a-spending his 'ard-earned money in drink and his poor wife, Susy, at home a-crying her eyes out. If it wadn't that I had promised Susy to fetch 'im home I'd wash my 'ands and disown 'im."

His thoughts were interrupted by the overturning of a table, the upsetting of chairs, the crash of falling tankards and voices in angry altercation within.

The stimulating effect of the ale he had imbibed had increased Tommy's natural proclivity to wit and repartee in the earlier part of the evening, and some of his shafts of ridicule had been directed at two young Scottish Highlanders, soldiers of Castle Pendennis on leave of absence. The petticoat men, as he had called them, had remembered him, and in the drinking chorus they took umbrage at the trifling mentioning of King George's name. There were angry words and then the ringing of steel.

The sounds stirred the man without to action. Pushing aside the swinging doors, a sight met his vision that tinged his spirit with righteous indignation. Chairs and tables were overturned; tankards were on the floor, with their spilt contents trickling away in sundry streams; Tommy's friends were huddled in fear in one corner, while unfortunate Tommy, in the grasp of the two half-intoxicated Highlanders, was forced to his knees. They had jerked him over the table and, with irate mien and with murder in their bloodshot eyes, had their sword points close to his breast.

With a quick bound and a blow the stranger sent the one Highlander reeling to the floor, and, with a Cornish side-kick on the ankle and a blow of his other fist, Highlander number two fell with a crash among the overturned chairs and spilt liquor.

"Ah! ye call yourselves sodjers and braave men, but thee'rt bubble-'eaded cowards for two of 'ee with swords to attack one unarmed man! Ah! ye drunken buccas! see if I don't report 'ee to your governor."

The two fallen Highlanders were either too inebriated with liquor, or dazed by the sudden attack, or dismayed by the threat of informing the governor of Pendennis Castle, to arise at once, and the stranger, casting a look of supreme contempt on them, grasped Tommy by the collar, jerked him to his feet and led him from the place. As they were going he could not but hear the admiring comments of two or three of the spectators.

"Ah! Dear!--Dear!--Man alive!--Did 'ee see un? 'Ow he knacked the sodjers down! 'Tez Tom Glaze, the Carnish champion!"

"The Carnish champion, the Carnish champion," went from lip to lip. The green doors fell to behind Glaze and Puckinharn and cut off the murmured admiration. Glaze hurried his nephew down one street and then into another before he suffered himself to speak the anger that was within him. Then giving Tommy a great shake to add to his soberness and intelligence, he began:

"I tell 'ee, Tommy, thee'rt a great chuckle-head and will wend up by being a brocken buddle if 'ee keeps on like this. Here I come to see my nephew, a respectable pilchard seller, and find un spending his time and money in taverns. Thee ought to be ashamed of thyself. Do 'ee call drinking and fighting a good time? Thee wert singing that ale would make 'ee hearty and merry and that sorrow would fail. I tell 'ee that ale brings trouble, and poverty, and sickness and broken health, and would 'ave caused thy funeral if I 'adn't come in when I did, for they sodjers had blood in their eyes. And thy wife at home a-crying her eyes out and without money. I tell 'ee I felt more like giving thee a skevern than I did the sodjers, a great chuckle-head, as 'ee art."

"Ah, Uncle Tom, doan't 'ee go on like that," said the crestfallen Tommy. "My head is almost mazed with the 'eadache; les go down to the kay [quay] and see if I won't feel better."

"Hark 'ee, Tom Puckinharn, let this be the last of thy drinking. Will 'ee promise?"

"Umsh--Yes--I promise."

"A man is always wuss off when he drinks. His money is gone, 'is time is gone, and 'is health is gone, and he winds by going into the Union Poor House. Now here I am,--I, Tom Glaze, champion Cornish wrastler and all round fighter, and I ne'er would be so had I took to drink. There was Jack Trewlan, champion before me, stout and strong, the champion of a dozen battles, and I thrawed 'im in ten minutes. I got an under holt and heaved 'im over my shoulders, and 'e went down like a bullock. Cause why? Cause 'e took to drink."

"'Ark!" said Tommy. "Wasn't that a woman's cry?"

They listened and the cry was repeated.

"'Urry up," said Glaze, "some woman in distress,--upon a foach if thee art drunk, 'ee can run a bit."

Away they went in the direction of the quay from which the shriek came, Tommy's uncle ahead, while he himself lurched along in the rear, like a distressed ship in a storm. They arrived at the entrance of the pier, and saw by the glimmering, flickering light of the lamp, at its head, a woman struggling in the grasp of a burly man. A coach swept by them at this moment and passed around the corner and up market street.

"Bring her along, Bob," cried a voice from a boat at the landing.

Bully Bob, for it was he, seeing the approach of newcomers, redoubled his efforts, when he received a blow that staggered him and he released his grasp. The woman ran screaming to her rescuers and Glaze placed himself in front of her. Bully Bob, recovering from the sudden assault, rushed in wrath at his aggressor, crying fiercely, "I'll eat 'ee up!"

Glaze grasped him with a quick, deft movement, and with a heave, threw him over his shoulder into the deep harbour water beyond. There was a cry of rage, and then a splash, and then the sound of oars in a long, steady pull, rounding the head of the pier.

"The fellow in the boat will pick un up, and I think they won't bother us nor the lady for the present," said Glaze.

"Why, 'tes Mistress Alice Vivian!" exclaimed Tommy Puckinharn, now thoroughly sobered. She had fainted under the excitement and he supported her with his arms. Glaze gazed at the countenance of the unconscious woman.

"'Zackly so; so it is," and he paused in some thought, and then, as though he had reached some conclusion, he relieved Tommy of his burden, and, followed by his nephew, he strode along to the nearest house, a small brown cottage, from the lower window of which gleamed a light. A rap on the door brought an answer, in the shape of a woman's quavering voice, demanding who was there.

"It's me, Tom Glaze, Mrs. Trembath." There was a pause within, then some hurried movement.

"Mrs. Trembath," said Tommy to his uncle, in some surprise. "Is that Ande's mother? How did she get here, and how did 'ee know she lived 'ere, Uncle Tom?"

"When she was turned out by the Lanyans, I got 'er this cottage," said Glaze. Further conversation was interrupted by the rattling of bolts within, the door was opened, and the gleam of candle light shot over all concerned.

Bearing his unconscious burden, Glaze, followed by his nephew, entered, and soon related his tale.

"Poor girl! Poor dear!" said Mrs. Trembath, as she chafed Alice's hands and then essayed to pour a little reviving cordial down her throat. The cordial revived her, and she opened her eyes, and then, in as many words as kind, motherly Mrs. Trembath would allow, she told her story.

"The young villain!" exclaimed Glaze, indignantly, as he heard of the doings of Mr. Richard. "I wish it was 'im instead of Bob, that I flung into the harbour."

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Trembath, as she drew the girl to herself. "The ones who afflicted you and defrauded you of your home, did the same to me. We are in similar circumstances, and you shall stay here until you feel better."

But Mistress Alice was far from soon being strong and well again. The long period of nursing her sick father, his death, the loss of the Manor, and the harrowing experience of that wild night's ride to Falmouth, were too much for her worn constitution, and she succumbed to brain fever. Throughout the long period of her sickness Mrs. Trembath would have been sorely distressed had it not been for the generosity of Glaze and Puckinharn. Glaze, as a friend of the old squire, having received his patronage, thought he was in duty bound to leave a sovereign now and then in Mrs. Trembath's hands, and his nephew, having taken the pledge, found he had many spare shillings and sixpences to spend in so good a cause.