of its figuring, but the Cobb never can become ancient, because the wild sea sweeps it away every now and then, after which it must be rebuilt by the persevering British.
Alongside of it landed the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth, who so went inland to his defeat and his beheading, and on its granite surface a dozen followers of his were hanged. Great things have happened on the Cobb, both in history and in fiction; one as real nowadays as the other. The Cobb might be called the A.B.C. of the novelist, for Jane Austen, Walter Besant, and Conan Doyle refer to doings there or thereabouts in their respective books, "Persuasion," "'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay," and "Micah Clarke."
When the bells of the town struck twelve, Stranleigh looked through the open window at his absorbed secretary, who sat like a statue in a heap of discarded letters which he had thrown over his shoulder one by one, as he viséed them. He now rested his elbow on the table, and was perusing some closely-written foolscap sheets.
"Well, Blake," cried Stranleigh, have you struck oil at last?"
"I rather think so," he replied, rising, and with his feet shuffling the loose débris to another
