There was a fair mountain of ingots made from the tin in that tunnel. Prentice Jack, that’s to say, Thomas, had a due share, and a fine share it was. He and his mates stayed in Cornwall, and stayed lucky for many a year. They changed Thomas’s name to Prospect Jack, because he was so good at finding tin.
And soon he didn’t need to go hacking and heaving and carrying down the mine, but built himself a fine house in St Ives, and lived at ease.
But once a month, or thereabouts, he would get up early in the morning, and off he would go to the ferry. Birdy and her mother would have ready an oven-busting pasty, balanced on a barrow, and Thomas would pay for it with a golden guinea.
Then he would trundle it up the hillside, and lower it away down the mine-shaft. If anyone asked him about it his answer was pat and ready.
“I’m a man that pays my debts,” he would say. “And there’s some that can’t fashion food, but that loves to get their teeth into a good Cornish pasty!”
