CHAPTER IX
RANGOR HEAD
"ONCE," Jim began, "in the good days, there was a tall young lad that was trudging it down the Cornish coasts in search of adventures. Never a one had he found yet, though he had tramped many days' journey from home and was beginning to weary of it all. And one day, just at the turn of noon, he reached a little village called Radulgo. This was hardly great enough to be called even a village, for there were no more than ten or a dozen gray huts huddled together on the dunes, with fish nets spread out to dry and a few brown children scrambling in the door-yards. These children all vanished like so many water-rats as our lad (whose name, by the way, was Roger Tafferel) came up and knocked at the stoutest door. He was weary of sleeping in the sand-hollows and eating where and when he could, and he wanted a good meal and a good bed that night."
"I hope he had an easier time of it than I did in Quimpaug!" murmured Joan.
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