CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
THE LANDING OF THE FRENCH.
It was nine months now since the scene, at the little bay, when one soft spring evening Bigley and I were walking slowly back to the Gap, after seeing Bob Chowne part of the way home to Ripplemouth.

The feeling of coming summer was in the air, the birds were singing in the oak woods their last farewell to the day, and from time to time we startled some thrush and spoiled his song.
Every now and then a rabbit gave us a glance at his furry coat as he sprang along, but soon it grew so dark that all we saw after each rustle was the speck of white which indicated his cottony tail, and soon even that was invisible.
The thin sharp line of the new moon hung low in the west, and the sea had quite a steely gleam in the dying day, while the stars were peeping out and beginning to look at themselves in the glassy surface of the sea.
Here and there we could see the coasting vessels going up and down the Channel, and just beneath the sinking moon there was a larger vessel coming up with the tide, but it was getting too dark to make out what it was.

We kept along by the cliff path, and as we came to the descent that led to the cottage Bigley and I parted, little thinking what an eventful night it was to prove.
"You'll come up by and by," I shouted, when he was about half-way down; and he sent back a cheery reply that he would, as I went on along the Gap.
I found my father seated before his books entering some statement by the light of a candle, and as I came in he thrust the book from him wearily.
"Oh, there you are, then," he said good-humouredly.

"Look here, young fellow, I don't see why I should go on worrying and toiling over this mine just to make you well off.

I was happy and comfortable enough without it, and here am I wearing myself out, getting no pleasure and no change, and all for you." "Sell it then, father," I said.