’I say, maister!’ called Pentecost to the preventive man; ’spose her be laiden with sea coal, and the coal come ashore. Do’y put your foot down on that and say nobody ain’t to shovel that up, it belongs to his Majesty, God bless him? And next tide the coal be all licked down into the belly of the ocean, and is no good to none.’
’What be the good of us keeping donkeys?’ asked Gerans; ’I reckon they cost us something for hay in winter. Us don’t keep donkeys for nort; us keep ’em to bring up the cliffs whatever comes ashore. And us is to have the expense of keeping donkeys and not to put ’em to no use! We are to keep the donkeys for the delight of our eyes, as beautiful objecks of nature.’
’I reckon her be laden with cloam’ (earthenware) ’ovens,’ said Pentecost. ’I wish his Majesty joy of them when they comes ashore. If Job were here and wanted a shard to scratch himself withal, and ventured to pick up a bit of scatted cloam off the beach, you’d be down on him in a jiffy, wouldn’t you now, maister?’
The preventive officer took no notice of the gibes cast at him; he kept his telescope on the vessel.
’Her be on the breakers now,’ said one of the men.
’What be the good of staying here?’ asked another. ’There be no chance of getting nothing unless us was to chuck this chap over the cliffs first.’
’Don’t say that, Pascho; there’ll be five shillings for every corpse we can bring up the cliffs. And if we manage to save one alive, surely the young lady here will give us a trifle and a drop of cyder to drink her health and the corpse’s. I seez it in her eye.’
’I will give you ten guineas for every man you save,’ said Mirelle, vehemently, ’and as much as you can eat and drink.’
’Didn’t I tell you so?’ exclaimed Pentecost. ’Look alive, boys! There be the ship gone scatt! Down the cliffs with you all, and see if we cannot earn a few gold guineas and drink long life to the lady and the corpse as we brings up alive.’
The ship had struck. The waves and foam swept over her, and in a few moments she went to pieces. Some figures were discernible battling with the water. It seemed to Mirelle impossible that these tiny ants were sufferers, that they were of human flesh and feelings like herself—they seemed so small. There was nothing horrible in the sight: it was not so shocking as the drowning of mice turned out of a trap into a bucket. When Gulliver cried with pain in Brobdingnag, the giants laughed. In a microscopic creature the agony of death must be microscopically small.