CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

GWYN SHOWS HIS METTLE.

Too much horrified for the moment even to speak, Gwyn grasped the sides of the ladder with spasmodic strength; his eyes dilated, his jaw dropped, and he clung there completely paralysed. Then his mental balance came back as suddenly as he had lost it, and feeling once more the strong, healthy lad he was, it came to him like a flash that it was impossible that Joe Jollivet, his companion in hundreds of rock-climbing expeditions—where they had successfully made their way along places which would have given onlookers what is known as "the creeps,"—could be in the danger he described, and with a merry laugh, he cried,—

"Get out! Go on, you old humbug, or I'll get a pin out of my waistcoat and give you the spur."

There was no response.

"Do you hear, old Jolly-wet? I say, you know, this isn't the sort of place for playing larks. Wait till we're up, and I'll give you such a warming!"

Then the chill of horror came back, for Joe said in a whisper, whose tones swept away all possibility of his playing tricks,—

"I'm not larking. I can't stir."

"I tell you you are larking," cried Gwyn, fiercely. "Such nonsense! Go on up, or I'll drive a pin into you right up to the head."

The cold chill increased now, and Gwyn shuddered, for Joe said faintly,—

"Do, please; it might give me strength."

The vain hope that it might be all a trick was gone, and Gwyn was face to face with the horror of their position. He too looked down, and there was the platform, with the water splashing and glittering in the sunshine as it struck upon the rock; and he knew that no help could come from that direction, for Hardock was at the pump in the shaft. He looked up to the edge of the cliff, but no one was there, for the people were all gathered about the top of the mine, and were not likely to come and look over and see their position. If help was to come to the boy above him, that help must come from where he stood; and, with the recollection of his own peril when he was being hauled up by the rope, forcing itself upon him, he began to act with a feeling of desperation which was ready to rob him of such nerve as he possessed.

A clear and prompt action was necessary, as he knew only too well, and, setting his teeth hard together, he went on up without a word, step by step, as he leaned back to the full stretch of his arms, and reached to where he could just force his feet, one on either side of his companion's, the spell of the ladder just affording sufficient width, and then pressing Joe close against the rounds with his heavily-throbbing breast, he held on in silence for a few moments, trying to speak, but no words would come.

Meanwhile, Joe remained silent and rigid, as if half insensible; and Gwyn's brain was active, though his tongue was silent, battling as he was with the question what to do.

"Oh, if those gulls would only keep away!" he groaned to himself, for at least a dozen came softly swooping about them, and one so close that the boy felt the waft of the air set in motion by its wings.

Then the throbbing and fluttering at his heart grew less painful, and the power to speak returned.

With a strong endeavour to be calm and easy, he forced himself to treat the position jauntily.

"There you are, old chap," he cried; "friend in need's a friend indeed. I could hold you on like that for a month—five minutes," he added to himself. Then aloud once more. "Feel better?"

There was no reply.

"Do you hear, stupid—feel better?"

A low sigh—almost a groan—was the only answer, and Gwyn's teeth grated together.

"Here, you, Joe," he said firmly. "I know you can hear what I say, so listen. You don't want for us both to go down, I know, so you've got to throw off the horrible feeling that's come over you, and do what I say. I'm going to hold you up like this for five minutes to get your wind, and then you've got to start and go up round by round. You can't fall because I shall follow you, keeping like this, and holding you on till you're better. You can hear all that, you know."

Joe bent his head, and a peculiar quivering, catching sigh escaped his lips.

"It's all nonsense; you want to give up over climbing a ladder such as we could run up. 'Tisn't like being on the rocks with nothing to hold on by, now, is it? Let's see; we're half of the way up, and we can soon do it, so say when you feel ready, and then up you go!"

But after a guess at the space of time named, Joe showed no inclination to say he was ready, and stood there, pressed against the ladder, breathing very feebly, and Gwyn began to be attacked once more by the chill of dread.

He fought it back in his desperation, and in a tone which surprised himself, he cried,—

"Now, then! Time's up! Go on!"

To his intense delight, his energy seemed to be communicated to his companion; and as he hung back a little, Joe reached with one hand, got a fresh hold there with the other, and, raising his right foot, drew himself slowly and cautiously up, to stand on the next spell.

"Cheerily ho!" sang out Gwyn, as he followed. "I knew, I knew you could do it. Now then! Don't stop to get cold. Up you go before I get out that pin."

Joe slowly and laboriously began again, and reached the next step, but Gwyn felt no increase of hope, for he could tell how feeble and nerveless the boy was. But he went on talking lightly, as he followed and let the poor fellow feel the support of his breast.

"That's your sort. Nine inches higher. Two nine inches more—a foot and a half. But, I say, no games; don't start off with a run and leave me behind. You'd better let me go with you, in case your foot gives— gives way again."

That repetition of the word gives was caused by a peculiar catching of Gwyn's breath.

"I say," he continued, as they paused, "this is ever so much better than going up those wet ladders in the shaft. I shall never like that way. Don't you remember looking down the shaft of that mine, where the hot, steamy mist came up, and the rounds of the ladder were all slippery with the grease that dropped from the men's candles stuck in their caps? I do. I said it would be like going down ladders of ice, and that you'd never catch me on them. Our way won't be hot and steamy like that was, because there'll always be a draught of fresh sea air running up from the adit. Now then, up you go again! I begin to want my dinner."

Joe did not stir, and Gwyn's face turned ghastly, while his mouth opened ready for the utterance of a wild cry for help.

But the cry did not escape, for Gwyn's teeth closed with a snap. He felt that it would result in adding to his companion's despair.

He was once more master of himself.

"Now then!" he cried; "I don't want to use that pin. Go on, old lazybones."

The energy was transferred again, and Joe slowly struggled up another step, closely followed by Gwyn, and then remained motionless and silent.

"You stop and let yourself get cold again," cried Gwyn, resolutely now. "Begin once more, and don't stop. You needn't mind, old chap. I've got you as tight as tight. Now then, can't you feel how safe you are? Off with you! I shall always be ready to give you a nip and hold you on. Now then, off!"

But there was no response.

"Do you hear! This isn't the place to go to sleep, Joe! Wake up! Go on! Never mind your feet being numb. Go on pulling yourself up with your hands. I'll give you a shove to help."

No reply; no movement; and but for the spasmodic way in which the boy clung with his hands, as if involuntarily, like a bird or a bat clings in its sleep, he might have been pronounced perfectly helpless.

"Now, once more, are you going to begin?" cried Gwyn, shouting fiercely. "Do you hear?"

Still no reply, and in spite of appeal, threat, and at last a blow delivered heavily upon his shoulder, Joe did not stir, and Gwyn felt that their case was desperate indeed. Each time he had forced his companion to make an effort it was as if the result was due to the energy he had communicated from his own body; but now he felt in his despair as if a reverse action were taking place, and his companion's want of nerve and inertia were being communicated to him; for the chilly feeling of despair was on the increase, and he knew now that poor Joe was beyond helping himself.

"What can I do?" he thought, as he once more forced himself to the point of thinking and acting. To get his companion up by his own force was impossible. Even if he could have carried the weight up the ladder, it would have been impossible to get a good hold and retain it, and he already felt himself growing weak from horror.

What to do?

It would have been easy enough to climb over his companion and save his own life; but how could he ever look Major Jollivet or his father in the eyes again? The momentary thought was dismissed on the instant as being cowardly and unworthy of an English lad. But what to do?

If he could have left him for a few minutes, he could have either gone up or gone down, and shouted for help; but he knew perfectly well that the moment he left the boy to himself, he would fall headlong.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?" he groaned aloud, and a querulous cry from one of the gulls still floating around them came as if in reply.

"Oh, if I only had a gun," he cried angrily. "Get out, you beasts! Who's going to fall!"

Then he uttered a cry for help, and another, and another; but the shouts sounded feeble, and were lost in space, while more and more it was forced upon him that Joe was now insensible from fear and despair, his nerve completely gone.

What could he do? There seemed to be nothing but to hold on till Joe fell, and then for his father's sake, he must try and save himself.

"Oh, if I only had a piece of rope," he muttered; but he had not so much as a piece of string. There was his silk neckerchief; that was something, and Joe was wearing one, too, exactly like it; for the boys had a habit of dressing the same.

It was something to do—something to occupy his thoughts for a few moments, and, setting one hand free, he passed it round the side of the ladder, leaned toward it, as he forced it toward his neck; his fingers seized the knot—a sailor's slip-knot—and the next minute the handkerchief was loose in his hands.

A few more long moments, and he had taken his companion's from his neck. Then came the knotting together, a task which needed the service of both hands, and for a time he hesitated about setting the second free.

Free he could not make it, but by clinging round the sides of the ladder with both arms, he brought his hands together, and with the skill taught him by the Cornish fishermen, he soon, without the help of his eyes, had the two handkerchiefs securely joined in a knot that would not slip, and was now possessed with a twisted silken cord about five feet long.

But how slight! Still it was of silk, and it was his only chance unless help came; and of that there seemed to be not the slightest hope.

He twisted the silk round and round in his hands for some seconds after the fashion that he and Joe had observed when making a snood for their fishing lines, and then passing one end round the spell that was on a level with Joe's throat, he drew till both ends were of a length, and then tied the silken cord tightly to the piece of stout, strong oak, letting the ends hang down.

Joe's hands were grasping the sides of the ladder—how feebly Gwyn did not know till he tried to move the left, when it gave way at once, and would have fallen to his side but for his own strong grasp. Holding it firmly, he passed it round the left side of the ladder, placing it along the spell, and then passing one of the silken ends round the wrist, he drew it tight to the spell and kept it there, while he loosened the boy's right-hand, passed that round the other side, so that wrist rested upon wrist, and the next minute the handkerchief was slipped round it, and drawn tightly, binding both together.

They were safely held so long as he kept up a tension upon the end of the silk; and this with great effort he was able to do with his left hand, while, working in the opposite way, he passed the second end round the two wrists once, dragged it as hard as he could, and then tied the first portion of a simple knot. Then he dragged again and again, bringing his teeth to bear in holding the shorter end of the handkerchief, while he tugged and tugged till the silk cut into the boy's flesh, and his wrists were dragged firmly down upon the spell. There the second portion of the knot was tied; and, feeling that Joe could not slip, he bound the longer end round again twice, brought the first end to meet it, and once again tied as hard as he could.

Breathless with the exertion of holding on by his crooked arms while he worked, and with the perspiration streaming down his face, he stood there panting for a few moments, holding on tightly, and peering through the spells to make sure that his knots were secure, and the silken cord sufficiently tight to stay Joe's wrists from being dragged through. Then he tried the fastening again, satisfying himself that Joe was as safe as hands could make him, and that his arms could not possibly be dragged away from the spell to which they were tied, even if his feet slipped from the round below.

Satisfied at this, Gwyn's heart gave a throb of satisfaction.

"You can't fall, Joe," he said. "I don't want to leave you, but I must go for help."

There was no reply.

"Can you hear what I say?" cried Gwyn.

Still no reply; and, feeling that he might safely leave him, Gwyn hesitated for a moment or two as to whether he should go up or down.

The latter seemed to be the quicker way, and, after descending a step or two, he threw arms and legs round the sides of the ladder, and let himself slide to the platform.

Here he stood for a moment to look up and see Joe hanging as he had left him. Then, stooping down, he entered the adit, out of which the clanging sound of the huge pump went on volleying, while the water kept up its hissing and rushing sound.

"Hardock!" he shouted, with his hands to his lips, and the cry reverberated in the narrow passage; but, though he shouted again and again, his voice did not penetrate, for the sound of the pumping and rushing of water, and the boy had to make his way right to where Hardock was anxiously watching the working of the machinery; and as Gwyn reached him, he was once more holding his lanthorn down to see how much the water had fallen.

The man gave a violent start as a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

"Come back!" shouted Hardock, to make himself heard, and he gazed wonderingly at the boy, whose face was ghastly. "Here, don't you go and say young Master Joe has fallen."

Gwyn placed his lips to the foreman's ear.

"Can't fall yet. Send word—ropes—top of ladder at once. Danger."

Hardock waited to hear no more, but dragged at the wire which formed the rough temporary signal to the engine-house, and the great beam of the pump stopped its work at once, when the silence was profound, save for a murmur high up over them at the mouth of the shaft.

"What is it there?" came in a familiar voice, which sounded dull and strange as it was echoed from the dripping walls.

"Help!" shouted Gwyn. "Long ropes to the head of the outside ladders."

"Right!" came back.

"What's wrong?" came down then in another voice.

"Joe Jollivet—danger," shouted Gwyn, stepping back to reply. "Now, come on!" he cried to Hardock; and he led the way along the adit from which, short as had been the time since the pump ceased working, the water had run off.

No more was said as they hurried along as fast as the sloping position necessary allowed; and on stepping out on to the platform, Gwyn looked up in fear and trembling, lest the silken cord should have given way, and fully anticipating that the ladder would be vacant.

Hardock uttered a groan, but Gwyn had already begun to climb.

"What are you going to do, lad?" shouted the man, excitedly.

"Go up and hold him on."

"No, no; I'm stronger than you." But Gwyn was already making his way up as fast as he could, and Hardock, after a momentary hesitation, followed.

Before they were half way, voices at the top were heard. "Hold tight!" shouted the Colonel, in his fierce military fashion. "Rope!"

Then an order was heard, and a great coil of rope was thrown out, so that it might fall clear of the climbers, whizzed away from the rock with the rings opening out, and directly after, was hanging beside the ladder right to the platform.

There was a clever brain at work on the top of the cliff, for, as Gwyn climbed the ladder, the rope was hauled in so as to keep the end close to his hands; and, seeing this, the boy uttered a sigh of relief, and climbed on, feeling that there was hope of saving his comrade now.

"Shall I send someone down?" shouted the Colonel, who was evidently in command at the top.

"No. We'll do it," cried Gwyn, breathlessly. "All right, Joe. We're here."

There was no response from above him, and at every step Gwyn felt as if his legs were turning to lead, and a nightmare-like sensation came over him of being obliged to keep on always clambering a tremendous ladder without ever reaching to where Joe was bound.

And all this in the very brief space of time before he reached to where he had tied the insensible lad.

Gwyn uttered a sigh like a groan as he touched Joe's feet. Then, without hesitating, he went higher, till he was on a level, with his feet resting on the same spell, fully expecting moment by moment, as he ascended, that the silk would give way and Joe's fall dash them both down. And, as at last he thrust his arms through the ladder on either side of the boy's neck and then spread them out, so as to secure them both tightly pressed against the spells, his head began to swim, and he felt that he could do no more.

His position saved him, for in those moments he could not have clung there by his hands, his helplessness was too great.

But this was all momentary, and he was recalled to himself by the voice of Hardock.

"I say, lad, hope this ladder's strong enough for all three. Now, then; what's next? Will you tie the rope round him and cast him free?"

Gwyn made no reply. His lips parted, and he strove to speak, but not a word would come.

"D'yer hear?" said Hardock. "I say, will you make the rope fast round him?"

"Below there!" came from above. "Make the rope fast round Joe's chest— tight knots, mind, and send him up first. Be smart!"

"All right, sir," shouted back Hardock, as he took hold of the rope swinging close to his hand. "Now, then, Master Gwyn, don't stand there such a gashly while thinking about it. Lay hold and knot it round him. They'll soon draw him away from under you."

Gwyn uttered an inarticulate sound, but only wedged his arms out more firmly.

"Ready?" came from above in the Colonel's voice.

"No, nothing like," roared Hardock. "Hold hard. Now, my lad, look alive. Don't think about it, but get hold of the rope, and draw it round his chest. Mind and not tie him to the ladder. Steady, for it's all of a quiver now."

Still Gwyn made no sign.

"Hi! What's come to you?" growled Hardock.

"Are you asleep, below there?" shouted the Colonel. "Hold fast, and I'll send someone down."

"Nay, nay!" yelled Hardock, "the ladder won't bear another. I'll get it done directly. Now, Master Gwyn, pull yourself together, and make this rope fast. D'yer hear?"

"Yes," gasped the boy at last. "Wait a minute and I'll try."

"Wait a minute and you'll try," growled the man. "We shall all be down directly. My word! What is the use o' boys. Hi! hold fast and I'll try and get up above you and tie the rope myself."

"No, no!" cried Gwyn, frantically. "You can't climb over us."

"But I must, lad, I aren't going to get round inside and try it that way. I aren't a boy now."

"No, don't try that," panted Gwyn, breathlessly. "You'd pull us off. I'm coming round again. I'll try soon, but I don't seem to have any breath."

"Hi! below there! what are you about?" shouted the Colonel. "Make that rope fast."

"Yes, sir; yes, sir; directly," yelled Hardock. "You, must wait."

"Make it fast round Jollivet," shouted the Colonel.

"All right, sir. Now, Master Gwyn, you hear what your guv'nor says?"

"Yes, I hear, Sam," panted the lad; "and I'm trying to do it. I'll begin as soon as ever I can, but I feel that if I let go, Joe would come down on you. He has no strength left in him, and—and I'm not much better."

"And you'll let go, too," growled the man to himself, "and if you do, it's all over with me." Then aloud: "Hold tight, my lad; I'm coming up."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

AN IGNOMINIOUS ASCENT.

"Am I to send someone down?" cried the Colonel, angrily.

"No, father," shouted Gwyn, his father's voice seeming to give him new force. "The ladder won't bear four."

"Then make fast that knot, sir. Quick, at once!"

"Yes, father," said the boy, as a thrill of energy ran through him, and he felt as if he could once more do something toward relieving himself from the strange feeling of inertia which had fettered every sense.

"You get up higher," growled Hardock, "and hold on, my lad."

"No. Keep where you are," cried Gwyn, whose voice now sounded firm. "If I leave him, he'll go."

"Nay, you go on; I'll take care o' that," said Hardock. "Up with you!"

"Keep down, I say," cried Gwyn, fiercely.

"Are you ready?" shouted the Colonel.

"In another minute, father," cried Gwyn; and, drawing out one arm, he made a snatch at the rope, drew it from Hardock's hand, and then hauled it higher by using his teeth as well as his right-hand.

"Better let me come, my lad."

"No," said Gwyn, shortly.

"Ready?" came from above.

"Not quite, father. I'll say when."

That last demand gave the final fillip to the lad's nerves, and, taking tightly hold of the spell above Joe's head with both hands, he raised his own legs till they came level with Joe's loins, and bestriding him as if on horseback, he crooked his legs and ankles round the sides of the ladder, held on by forcing his toes round a spell, and then, with his hands free, he hung back, and quickly knotted the rope about Joe's chest.

"Steady, my lad! Be ready to take hold," said Hardock, whose face was now streaming with perspiration, and his hands wet, as he looked up at the perilous position of Gwyn. Then, obeying a sudden thought, he loosened one hand, snatched off his cap, threw it down, and took three steps up the ladder, raising himself so that he could force his head beneath the lad, with the result that he gave him plenty of support, relieving him of a great deal of the strain on his muscles, for during the next minute he was, as it were, seated upon the mining captain's head.

"That's better," panted Gwyn.

"Make a good knot, lad," growled Hardock; and all was perfectly silent at the edge of the cliff above them, for every movement was being attentively watched.

"Hah!" sighed Gwyn, as he tightened the last knot.

"Quite safe?" asked Hardock.

"Yes, quite."

"What next?"

"Get down!"

"Are you right?"

"Yes."

Hardock yielded very slowly for a while, and then stopped and raised himself again.

"What yer doing?"

"Getting out my knife. He's lashed to the spell."

"Oh!"

Gwyn's hands were dripping wet, and, as he tried to force his right into his pocket, he had a hard struggle, for it stuck to the lining, the strain of his position helping to resist its passage. But at last he forced it in, to find to his horror that the knife was not in that pocket, and he had a terrible job to drag out his hand.

"Can't get at my knife," he panted.

"All right; have mine," was growled, and Hardock took out and opened his own. "Here you are."

The boy blindly lowered his hand for the knife, and not a whisper was heard in those critical moments. For every movement was scanned, and the Colonel was lying on his chest, straining his eyes, as he waited to give the order to haul up.

Gwyn gripped the knife, a sharp-pointed Spanish blade, and raised it, bending forward now, so as to look over Joe's shoulder to see where to cut.

His intention was to thrust the point in between the silken cord and the boy's wrists; but he found it impossible without having both hands, and there was nothing for it but to saw right down.

This he began to do just beneath the knots, hoping that the last part would yield before the knife could touch the boy's skin.

"Take care, my lad," growled Hardock.

"Yes; I'm trying not to cut him," panted Gwyn.

"Nay, I mean when you're through. Hold tight yourself."

"Yes, I'll try."

"Tell 'em to make the rope quite taut."

"Haul and hold fast," cried Gwyn.

"Right!" came promptly from above, and a heavy strain was felt.

"I—tied it—so tight," muttered Gwyn, as he sawed away.

"Ay, and his weight. Steady, my lad, steady!"

"Hah! that's through," cried Gwyn. "Be ready to haul."

"Right!" came from above.

"Shall I get lower?" said Hardock.

"Yes!—No! The other knot holds him," panted Gwyn; and he had to begin cutting again; but this time he found that by laying the blade of the knife flat against the spell, he could force the point beneath the handkerchief. "Now, steady, Sam," he said, "I'm going to have one big cut, and then hold on."

"All right, my lad. I'll support you all I can, but you must hold tight."

The strain on the rope was firm and steady, as Gwyn drew a deep breath, forced the knife point steadily through beneath the silk, raised the edge of the blade a little more and a little more, and then, in an agony of despair, just as he was about to give one bold thrust, he let go, and snatched at the ladder side.

For all at once there was a sharp, scraping sound. The silk, which had been strained like a fiddle-string over a bridge, parted on the edge of the keen knife, and, as Joe's arms dropped quite nerveless and inert, down went the knife, and Gwyn felt that he was going after.

For in those brief moments he seemed to be falling fast.

But he was not moving; it was Joe being drawn upward, and the next minute Gwyn was clinging with his breast now on the spells of the ladder, against which he was being pressed, Hardock, with a rapid movement, having forced himself up so as to occupy the same position as Gwyn had so lately held with respect to Joe.

"He's all right—if your knots hold," said Hardock, softly. "How is it with you, my lad?"

"Out of breath, that's all. I can't look, though, now, Sam. Watch and see if he goes up all right."

"No need, my lad," said the man, bitterly. "We should soon know if he came down. Come, hold up your chin, and show your pluck. There's nothing to mind now. Why, you're all of a tremble."

"Yes; it isn't that I feel frightened now," said the boy; "but all the muscles in my legs and arms are as if they were trembling and jerking."

"'Nough to make 'em," growled Hardock. "Never mind, the rope'll soon be down again—yes, they've got him, and they're letting another down. I'll soon have you fast and send you up."

"No, you won't, Sam," said Gwyn, who was rapidly recovering his balance. "I haven't forgotten the last knot you made round me."

"Well, well! I do call that mean," growled the man. "You comes and fetches me to help, and I has to chuck my cap away; then you chucks my best knife down after it; and now you chucks that there in my teeth. I do call it a gashly shame."

"Never mind. I don't want the rope at all," said Gwyn. "There, slacken your hold. I'm going to climb up."

"Nay; better have the rope, my lad."

"I don't want the rope. I'm tired and hot, but I can climb up."

"Gwyn!" came at that moment.

"Yes, father."

"Just sarves you right," growled Hardock. "Take some of the gashly conceit out of you, my lad. Now, then, I'm going to tie you up."

"No; I shall do it myself," said Gwyn, making a snatch at the line lowered down. "Now, get out of my way."

"Oh, very well; but don't blame me if you fall."

"No fear, Sam."

"Nay, there's no fear, my lad; but I hope we're not going to have no more o' this sort o' thing. There's the pumping stopped and everything out o' gear, but it's always the way when there's boys about. I never could understand what use they were, on'y to get in mischief and upset the work. We sha'n't get much tin out o' Ydoll mine if you two's going to hang about, I know that much. Now, then, the rope aren't safe."

"Yes, it is," said Gwyn, who had made a loop and passed it over his head and arms. "I'm not going to swing. I'm going to walk up."

"Ready, my lad?" cried the Colonel.

"Yes, father; but I'll climb up, please. You can have the rope hauled on as I come."

"Come on, then," cried the Colonel.

"Yes, father, coming."

"Hor, hor!" laughed Hardock, derisively, as he drew back to the full extent of his arms so as to set Gwyn free. "Up you goes, my lad, led just like a puppy-dog at the end of a string. Mind you don't fall."

"If it wasn't so dangerous for you, I'd kick you, Sam," said Gwyn.

"Kick away, then, my lad; 'taint the first time I've been on a ladder by a few thousand times. My hands and feet grows to a ladder, like, and holds on. You won't knock me off. But I say!"

"What is it?" said Gwyn, who was steadily ascending, with the rope held fairly taut from above.

"You'll pay for a new hat for me?"

"Oh, yes, of course."

"And another knife, better than the one you pitched overboard?"

"Oh, we can come round in a boat and find that when the tide's down."

"Rocks are never bare when the tide's down here, my lad. There's always six fathom o' water close below here; so you wouldn't ha' been broken up if you'd falled; but you might ha' been drownded. That were a five-shilling knife."

"All right, Sam, I'll buy you another," shouted Gwyn, who was some distance up now.

"Thank ye. Before you go, though," said Sam Hardock.

"Go? Go where?"

"Off to school, my lad; I'm going to 'tishion your two fathers to send you both right away, for I can't have you playing no more of your pranks in my mine, and so I tell you."

Gwyn made no reply, but he went steadily up, while, on casting a glance below, he saw that the mine captain was making his way as steadily down; but he thought a good deal, and a great deal more afterwards, for, on reaching the top of the cliff, there lay Joe on the short grass, looking ghastly pale, and his father, with Joe's, ready to seize him by the arm and draw him into safety.

"There must be no more of this," said the Colonel, sternly. "You two boys are not fit to be trusted in these dangerous places. Now, go home at once."

The little crowd attracted by the accident had begun to cheer wildly, but the congratulatory sound did Gwyn no good. He did not feel a bit like the hero of an adventure, one who had done brave deeds, but a very ordinary schoolboy sort of personage, who was being corrected for a fault, and he felt very miserable as he turned to Joe.

"Are you coming home, too?"

"Yes. I suppose so," said Joe, dismally.

There was another cheer, and the boys felt as if they could not face the crowd, till an angry flush came upon Gwyn's cheeks; for there stood, right in the front, the big, swarthy fellow who had been caught plumbing the depth of the mine, and he was grinning widely at them both.

"Ugh!" thought Gwyn, "how I should like to punch that chap's head. Here, Joe, let's tell our fathers that this fellow is hanging about here."

"No," said Joe, dismally. "I feel as if I didn't mind about anything now. My father looked at me as if I'd been doing it all on purpose to annoy him. Let's go home."



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A BRUTAL THREAT.

Gwyn did not see Joe for a whole week, and he did not go over to the mine, for the Colonel had called him into his room the next morning, and had a very long, serious talk with him, and this was the end of his lesson,—

"Of course, I meant you to go and read for the army, Gwyn, my lad, but this mine has quite upset my plans, and I can't say yet what I shall do about you. It will seem strange for one of our family to take to such a life, but a man can do his duty in the great fight of life as well whether he's a mine owner or a soldier. He has his men to keep in hand, to win their confidence, and make them follow him, and to set them a good example, Gwyn. But I can't say anything for certain. It's all a speculation, and I never shut my eyes to the fact that it may turn out a failure. If it does, we can go back to the old plans."

"Yes, father," said the boy, rather dolefully, for his father had stopped as if waiting for him to speak.

"But if it turns out a successful, honest venture, you'll have to go on with it, and be my right-hand man. You'll have to learn to manage, therefore, better than ever I shall, for you'll begin young. So we'll take up the study of it a bit, Gwyn, and you shall thoroughly learn what is necessary in geology, and metallurgy and chemistry. If matters come to the worst, you won't make any the worse officer for knowing such matters as these. It's a fine thing, knowledge. Nobody can take that away from you, and the more you use it the richer you get. It never wastes."

"No, father," said Gwyn, who began to feel an intense desire now to go on with his reading about the wars of Europe, and the various campaigns of the British army, while the military text-book, which it had been his father's delight to examine him in, suddenly seemed to have grown anything but dry.

"Begin reading up about the various minerals that accompany tin ore in quartz, for one thing, and we'll begin upon that text-book, dealing with the various methods of smelting and reducing ores, especially those portions about lead ore, and extracting the silver that is found with it."

"Yes, father," said Gwyn, quietly; and the boy set his teeth, wrinkled his brow, and looked hard, for Colonel Pendarve treated his son in a very military fashion. He was kindness and gentleness itself, but his laws were like those of the Medes and Persians done into plain English.

But the whole week had passed, and Mrs Pendarve took him to task one morning.

"Come, Gwyn," she said, "I am quite sure your father does not wish you to mope over your books, and give up going out to your old amusements."

"Doesn't he, mother?" said the boy, drearily.

"Of course not. What has become of Joe Jollivet? He has not been near you."

"In the black books, too, I suppose," said Gwyn, bitterly. "Major's been giving it to him."

"Gwyn, I will not have you talk like that," said his mother. "You boys both deserve being taken to task for your reckless folly. You forget entirely the agony you caused me when I heard of what had taken place."

"I didn't want to cause you agony, mother," pleaded the boy.

"I know that, my dear, but you have been growing far too reckless of late. Now be sensible, and go on as if there had been no trouble between your father and you. I wish it. Try and grasp the spirit in which your father's reproofs were given."

"All right, mother, I will," said Gwyn; and his face brightened up once more.

The consequence was that he went out into the yard, and unchained the dog, with very great difficulty, for the poor beast was nearly mad with excitement directly it realised the fact that it was going out with its master for a run; and as soon as they entered the lane, set off straight for the Major's gates, stopping every now and then to look round, and to see if Gwyn was going there.

But half-way up the hill Gwyn turned off on to the rough granite moorland, and Grip had to come back a hundred yards to the place where his master had turned off, and dashed after him.

It didn't matter to the dog, for there was some imaginary thing to hunt wherever they went; and as soon as he saw that he was on the right track, he began hunting most perseveringly.

For Gwyn did not want to go to the Major's. He felt that he would like to see Joe and have a good long talk with him, as well as compare notes; but if he had gone to the house, he would have had to see the Major, and that gentleman would doubtless have something to say that would not be pleasant to him—perhaps blame him for Joe getting into difficulties.

No, he did not want to go to the Major's.

"Like having to take another dose," he said to himself, and he went on toward the old circle of granite stones which had been set up some long time back, before men began to write the history of their deeds.

It lay about a mile from the cove, high up on the windy common among the furze bushes, and was a capital place for a good think. For you could climb up on the top of the highest stone, look right out to sea, and count the great vessels going up and down channel, far away on the glittering waters—large liners which left behind them long, thin clouds of smoke; stately ships with all sail set; trim yachts; and the red-sailed fishing fleet returning from their cruise round the coast, where the best places for shooting their nets were to be found.

It was quite a climb up to the old stones, which were not seen from that side till you were close upon them, for they stood in a saucer-like hollow in the highest part of the ridge, and beyond, there was one of the deep gullies with which that part of Cornwall was scored—lovely spots, along which short rivulets made their way from the high ground down to the sea.

Grip knew well enough now where his master was making for, and dashed forward as if certain that that mysterious object which he was always hunting had hidden itself away among the stones, and soon after a tremendous barking was heard.

"Rabbit," muttered Gwyn; and for a few moments he felt disposed to begin running and join the dog in the chase. But he did not, for, in spite of being out there on the breezy upland, where all was bright and sunny, he felt dull and disheartened. Things were not as he could wish, for he had just begun to feel old enough to bear upon the rein when it was drawn tight, and to long to have the bit in his teeth and do what he liked. The Colonel had been pleasant enough that morning, but he had not invited him to go to the mine; and it felt like a want of trust in him.

So Gwyn felt in no humour for sport of any kind; he did not care to look out at the ships, and speculate upon what port they were bound for; he picked up no stones to send spinning at the grey gulls; did not see that the gorse was wonderfully full of flower; and did not even smell the wild thyme as he crushed it beneath his feet. There were hundreds of tiny blue and copper butterflies flitting about, and a great hawk was havering overhead; but everything seemed as if his mind was out of taste and the objects he generally loved were flavourless.

All he felt disposed to do was to turn himself into a young modern ascetic, prick his legs well in going through the furze, and then take a little bark off his shins in climbing twenty feet up on to the great monolith, and there sit and grump.

"Bother the dog, what a row he's making!" he muttered. "I wish I hadn't brought him."

Then his lips parted to shout to Grip to be quiet, but he did not utter the words, for he stopped short just as he neared the first stone of the circle, on hearing the dog begin to bark furiously again, and a savage voice roar loudly,—

"Get out, or I'll crush your head with this stone!"



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A DOUBTFUL ACQUAINTANCE.

Gwyn recognised the voice, and knew what was the matter, and his first aim was to make a rush to protect his dog from the crushing blow which would probably be given him with one of the many weather-worn fragments of granite lying about among the great monoliths. But he was just where he could not make such a rush, for it would have been into a dense bed of gorse as high as himself, and forming a chevaux de frise of millions of sharp thorns.

The next best plan was to shout loudly, "You hurt my dog if you dare—" though the man might dare, and cast the stone all the same.

But Gwyn did neither of these things, for another familiar voice rose from beyond the furze, crying loudly,—

"You let that dog alone! You touch him and I'll set him to worry you. Once he gets his teeth into you, he won't let go. Here, Grip! Come to heel!"

"Well done, Joe!" muttered Gwyn, who felt that his dog was safe; and he ran to the end of the bank of prickly growth, where there was an opening, and suddenly appeared upon the scene.

It was all just as he had pictured; there was Joe Jollivet, with Grip close to his legs, barking angrily and making short rushes, and there, a few yards away, stood the big, swarthy stranger who had been caught at the mine mouth, and whom Gwyn believed to have tampered with the furnace door, now standing with a big stone of eight or ten pounds' weight, ready to hurl at the dog if attacked.

"Here, you put down that stone," cried Gwyn, angrily. "How dare you threaten my dog!"

"Stone aren't yours," said the man, tauntingly. "This ground don't belong to you. Keep your mongrel cur quiet."

"My dog wouldn't interfere with you if you let it alone."

"Oh, it's your dog, is it?" said the man. "Well, take him home and chain him up. I don't want to flatten his head, but I jolly soon will if he comes at me."

"He couldn't hit Grip," said Joe, maliciously, as he bent down to pat and encourage the dog. "Set him at the fellow—he has no business here."

"What!" cried the fellow, who looked a man of three or four-and-thirty, but talked like a boy of their own age. "Much right here as you have. You let me alone, and I'll let you alone. What business have you to set your beastly dog at me?"

"Who set him at you?" cried Joe. "He only barked at you—he saw you were a stranger—and you picked up a stone, and that, of course, made him mad."

"So would you pick up a stone, if a savage dog came at you. Look at him now, showing his sharp teeth. On'y wish I had his head screwed up in a carpenter's bench. I'd jolly soon get the pinchers and nip 'em all out. He wouldn't have no more toothache while I knew him."

"There, you be off," said Gwyn, "while your shoes are good."

"Don't wear shoes, young 'un. Mine's boots."

"You're after no good hanging about here."

"Er—think I want to steal your guv'nor's pears off the wall, now, don't yer?"

"How do you know we've got pears on our wall?"

"Looked over and see," said the man, grinning.

"Yes, that's it; you're a regular spy, looking for what you can steal," cried Joe. "Be off!"

"Sha'n't. Much right here, I tell you, as you have. But I like folks to talk about stealing! Who nipped off with my fishing line and sinker? You give 'em back to me."

"No; they're confiscated, same as poachers' nets," said Gwyn. "Who sent you here?"

"Sent me here? Sent myself."

"What for?"

"Wants a job. I'm mining, and I heared you was going to open the old mine. Think your guv'nors'll take me on?"

"You put down that stone before you ask questions," said Gwyn.

"You shut up your dog's mouth, then. I don't want to kill him, but I aren't going to have him stick his teeth into me."

"The dog won't hurt you if you don't threaten him. Throw away that stone."

"There you are, then; but I warn you, if he comes at me, I'll let him have my boot, and if he does get it, he won't have any more head."

"Quiet, Grip!" said Gwyn, as the man threw away the stone, and the dog whined and said, "Don't talk to me like that; this fellow isn't to be trusted; make me drive him away." At least not in words, for the dog spoke with his eyes, which seemed to suggest that this course should be taken.

"Who are you, and where do you come from?" said Gwyn, looking at the man suspiciously.

"Truro. All sorts o' places wherever there's mines open and—work."

"And you heard that this one was going to be opened?"

"Yes, that's just what I did hear."

"Then why did you come spying about the place?"

"Never came spying about; only wanted to know how deep she was. I don't like mines as is two hundred fathom deep. Too hot enough, and such a long way up and down. Takes all the steam out of you. Will your guv'nors give me a job?"

"Go to the office and ask them; that's the best way," said Gwyn, looking at the man suspiciously, as he took off his cap, and began to smooth it round and round.

"Well, p'r'aps that won't be a bad way," said the fellow. "But you two won't say anything again' me, will you, 'cause of that row we had when you smugged my line and sinker?"

"I don't think I shall say any more than what happened," replied Gwyn.

"'Cause it was all over a row, now, warn't it? Of course, a chap gets his monkey up a bit when it comes to a fight. That's nat'ral, ar'n't it?"

Gwyn nodded, and felt as if he did not like the look of the man at all; but at the same time he was ready to own that there might be a good deal of prejudice in the matter.

"Wouldn't like to go and say a good word for me, would you?" said the man.

"Of course, I should not like to," said Gwyn, laughing. "How can I go and speak for a man whom I only know through our having two rows with him. That isn't natural, is it?"

"No, I s'pose not," said the man, frankly. "Well, I'll go myself. I say, I am a wunner to work."

"You'd better tell Colonel Pendarve so," said Gwyn, smiling.

"Think so? Well, I will, and good luck to me. But, I say, hadn't you two better make your dog friends with me?"

"No," said Gwyn, promptly. "Grip will know fast enough whether he ought to be friends with you or no."

"Would he? Is he clever enough for that?"

"Oh, yes," said Gwyn; "he knows an honest man when he sees him, doesn't he, Joe?"

"To be sure he does."

"Think o' that, now," said the man. "All right, then. Don't you two go again' me. I'll start for the office at once."

"Here, what's your name?"

"Dinass—Thomas Dinass," said the man, with a laugh, "but I'm mostly called Tom. That all?"

"Yes, that's all," said Gwyn, shortly; and the man turned to go, with the result that Grip made a rush after him, and the man faced round and held up his boot.

"Come here, sir! Come back!" shouted Gwyn; and the dog obeyed at once, but muttering protests the while, as if not considering such an interruption justifiable.

Then all three stood watching till the man had disappeared, the dog uttering an angry whine from time to time, as if still dissatisfied.

At last the two boys, who had met now for the first time since the adventure on the ladder, turned to gaze in each other's eyes, and ended in exchanging a short nod.

"Going up?" said Gwyn at last.

"Yes; I came on purpose, and found Grip here."

"So did I come on purpose," said Gwyn. "Wanted a good think. Lead on."

Joe went to the tallest of the old stones, and began to climb—no easy task, but one to which he seemed to be accustomed; and after a little difficulty, he obtained foothold, and then, getting a hand well on either side of one of the weather-worn angles, he drew himself higher and higher, and finally perched himself on the top.

Before he was half up, Gwyn began to follow, without a thought of danger, though he did say, "Hold tight; don't come down on my head."

Up he went skilfully enough, but before he was at the top, Grip uttered a few sharp barks, raised his ears, became excited, and jumped at the monolith, to scramble up a few feet, drop, and, learning no wisdom from failure, scramble up again and again, and fall back.

Then, as he saw his master reach the top, he threw back his head, opened his jaws, and uttered a most doleful, long-drawn howl, as full of misery and disappointment as a dog could give vent to.

"Quiet, will you!" cried Gwyn, and the dog answered with a sharp bark, to which he added another dismal, long-drawn howl.

"Do you hear!" cried Gwyn; "don't make that row. Lie down!"

There was another howl.

"Do you want me to throw stones at you?" cried Gwyn, fiercely.

Doubtless the dog did not, for he had an intense aversion to being pelted; but, as if quite aware of the fact that there were no stones to cast, he threw his head up higher than ever, and put all his force into a dismal howl, that was unutterably mournful and strange.

"You wretch! Be quiet! Lie down!" cried Gwyn; but the more he shouted the louder the dog howled, while he kept on making ineffectual efforts to mount the stone.

"Let him be; never mind. He'll soon get tired. Want to talk."

The boys settled themselves in uncomfortable positions on the narrow top, where the felspar crystals stood out at uncomfortable angles, and those of quartz were sharper still, and prepared for their long confab. As a matter of course, they would have been ten times as comfortable on the short turf just beyond the furze; but then, that would have been quite easy, and there would have been no excitement, or call upon their skill and energy. There was nothing to be gained by climbing up the stone—nothing to see, nothing to find out; but there was the inclination to satisfy that commonplace form of excelsiorism which tempts so many to try and get to the top. So the boys sat there, thoughtfully gazing out to sea, while the dog, after a good many howls, gave it up for a bad job, curled himself into an ottoman, hid his nose under his bushy collie tail, and went to sleep.

Some minutes elapsed before either of the boys spoke, and when one did, it was with his eyes fixed upon the warm, brown sails of a fishing-lugger, miles away.

It was Gwyn who commenced, and just as if they had been conversing on the subject for some time,—

"Major very angry?"

Joe nodded.

"Awfully. Said, knowing what a state of health he was in, it wasn't fair for me to go on trying to break my neck, for I was very useful to him when he had his bad fever fits—that it wasn't pleasant for him to stop at home, expecting to have me brought back in bits."

"He didn't say that, did he?"

"Yes, he did—bits that couldn't be put together again; and that, if this was the result of having you for a companion, I had better give you up."

Gwyn drew a deep breath, and kicked his heels together with a loud clack. Then there was a long pause.

"Well," said Gwyn, at last; "are you going to give me up?"

Joe did not make a direct answer, but proposed a question himself.

"What did the Colonel say?"

"Just about the same as your father did; only he didn't bring in about the fever, nor he didn't say anything about my being brought home in bits. Said that I was a great nuisance, and he wondered how it was that I could not amuse myself like other boys did."

"So we do," said Joe, sharply. "I never knew of a boy yet who didn't get into a scrape sometimes."

Gwyn grunted, and frowned more deeply.

"Said it was disgraceful for me to run risks, and cause my mother no end of anxiety, and—"

"Well, go on: what a time you are!" cried Joe, for Gwyn suddenly paused. "What else did he say?"

"Oh, something you wouldn't like to hear."

"Yes, I should. Tell me what it was."

Gwyn took out his knife, and began to pick with the point at a large crystal of pinkish felspar, which stood partly out of the huge block of granite.

"I say, go on. What an aggravating chap you are!"

Gwyn went on picking.

"I say, do you want me to shove you off the top here?"

"No; and you couldn't, if I did."

"Oh, couldn't I?—you'd see. But I say, go on, Ydoll; tell us all about it. I did tell you what my father said."

"Said he supposed it was from associating with such a boy as you; for he was sure that I was too well-meaning a lad to do such things without being prompted."

"Oh, my! What a shame!" cried Joe. "It was too bad."

"Well, I didn't want to tell you, only you bothered me till I did speak."

"Of course. Isn't it better to know than have any one thinking such things of you without knowing. But I say, though, it is too bad; I couldn't help turning like I did. It came on all at once, and I couldn't stir."

"He didn't mean about that so much. He bullied me for not taking care of you, and stopping you from going up the ladder."

"Did he? Why, you couldn't help it."

"He talked as if he supposed I could, and said if we went out again together, I had better take Grip's collar and chain, put the collar round your neck, and lead you."

"Oh I say! Just as if I was a monkey."

"No; father meant a dog, or a puppy." Joe gave himself a sudden twist round to face his companion, flushing with anger the while, and as the space on the top of the stone was very small, he nearly slipped off, and had to make a snatch at Gwyn to save himself from an ugly fall.

"There!" cried Gwyn, "you're at it again. You've made up your mind to break your neck, or something else."

"It was all your fault," cried Joe, "saying things like that. I don't believe your father said anything of the kind. It was just to annoy me."

"What, do you suppose I wanted to go home with fresh trouble to talk about?"

"No, but it's your nasty, bantering, chaffing way. Colonel Pendarve wouldn't have spoken about me like that."

Gwyn laughed.

"I suppose he didn't say I had better give you up as a companion—"

"Did he?"

"If I was always getting into some scrape or another."

"No; but I say, Ydoll, did he?"

"Something of the kind. He said it was getting time for me to be thinking of something else beside tops and marbles."

"Well, so we do. Whoever thinks about tops and marbles now? Why, I haven't touched such a thing for two years."

"So I suppose you and I will have to part," continued Gwyn.

Joe glanced at him sidewise.

"It's no use for us to be companions if it means always getting into scapes at home."

Joe began to whistle. His face became perfectly smooth, and he watched his companion, as he picked away at the crystal, while Gwyn looked puzzled.

"I say, you'll break the point of your knife directly," said Joe.

"Well, suppose I do?"

"Be a pity. It's a good knife."

"Well, you won't see it when it's broken if we're going to part."

"Of course not; and you could get to the big grindstone they've set up under that shed for the men to grind their picks. Soon give it a fresh point. I say, how jolly that is—only to put on the band over the wheel shaft from the engine, and the stone goes spinning round! I tried it one day on my knife. It was splendid."

"You seem precious glad that we've got to part," said Gwyn.

"Not a bit of it. It's all gammon."

"Eh? What is?"

"Talking about separating. It doesn't mean anything. I know better than that. Come, let's talk sense."

"That's what I have been doing," said Gwyn, stiffly.

"Not you; been bantering all the time. They didn't mean it, and you didn't mean it. We're to be partners over the mine some of these days, Ydoll, when we grow up, and they're tired of it. I say, though, I don't think I shall like having that Tom Dinass here."

"No," said Gwyn, thoughtfully. "He looks as if he could bite. Think what he said about getting work was all true?"

"I suppose so. Seems reasonable. I don't like to disbelieve people when they speak out plainly to you."

"No," said Gwyn, thoughtfully. "If they've told you a crammer at some time, it makes all the difference, and you don't feel disposed to believe them again. Perhaps it's all right, and when he's taken on, he may turn out a very good sort of fellow."

"Yes; we shall have to chance it. I say, though, Ydoll, we must be more careful for the future about not getting into scrapes together."

"Won't matter if we're not to be companions any more. We can't get into any, can we?"

"Gammon! They didn't mean it, I tell you. We've only got to mind."

"And we begin by getting up here, and running the risk of breaking our legs or wings."

"Well, it was stupid, certainly," said Joe, thoughtfully. "But then, you see, we were so used to climbing up it that it came quite natural."

"Father says one has got to think about being a man now, and setting to work to understand the mining."

"Yes," said Joe, with a sigh; "that's what my father said. Seems rather hard to have to give up all our old games and excursions."

"Then don't let's give them up," said Gwyn, quickly. "They don't want us to, I know—only to work hard sometimes. There, let's get down and go and see how they're getting on at the mine."

"Shall we?" said Joe, doubtingly.

"Yes. Why not? We needn't do anything risky. I haven't been there since the day the pump was started. Have you?"

"No; haven't been near it."

"Then come on!"

Gwyn set the example of descending by lowering his legs over the side, gripping the angle with his knees, and let himself down cleverly, Joe following directly after; while Grip, who had uncurled himself, bounded away before them full of excitement.

A week had resulted in a good deal of work being done by the many men employed; the roughly-made office had been advanced sufficiently for the two old officers to take possession, and spend a good deal of time in consultation with Hardock, who was at work from daylight to dusk, superintending, and was evidently most eager for the success of the mine. The tall granite shaft was smoking away, and the puffs of steam and the whirring, buzzing noises told that the engine was fully at work, while a dull heavy clank, clank, came to the boys from the mouth of the shaft.

The first person almost that they set eyes upon was Hardock, who came bustling out of the building over the mouth of the shaft, and stopped short to stare. Then, giving his leg a heavy slap, his face expanded into a grin of welcome.

"There you are, then, both of you at last. Why, where have you been all this time?"

"Oh, busy at home," said Gwyn, evasively.

"Come to knock up an accident of some kind!" said the man, with the grin on his face expanding.

"No, I haven't," said Gwyn, shortly.

"You, then?" cried Hardock, turning to Joe, who coloured like a girl.

"Ah, well, we won't quarrel now you have come, my lads: but the Colonel made my ears sing a bit the other day for not looking more sharply after you both. Well, aren't you going to ask how the mine is?"

"Yes," said Gwyn, glad to change the subject. "Got all the water out?"

"Nay, my lad, nor nothing like all."

"Then you never will," said Joe. "Depend upon it, there's a way in somewhere from the sea, and that's why the old place was forsaken."

"Sounds reasonable," said Hardock, "'specially as the bits of ore we've come across are so rich."

"Yes, that's it," said Gwyn. "What a pity, though. How far have you got down?"

"Oh, a long way, my lad, and laid open the mouths of two galleries. Wonderful sight of water we've pumped out. Don't seem to get much farther now."

"No, and you never will," said Joe again, excitedly. "I'm sorry, though. Father will be so disappointed."

"What makes you say that there's a way in from the sea?" said Hardock, quietly.

"Because the shaft's so near. It's a very bad job, though."

"But look ye here," said Hardock, laying his hand on Gwyn's shoulder, "as you have come, tell me this: how should you try to find out whether it was sea-water we were pumping out?"

"Why, by tasting it, of course," said Gwyn. "It would be quite salt."

"Of course!" said Hardock, with a chuckle, "that's what I did do."

"And was it salt?" asked Joe.

"No, it warn't. It was fresh, all fresh; only it warn't good enough to make tea."

"Why?" asked Gwyn.

"'Cause you could taste the copper in it quite strong. We shall get the water out, my lads, in time; but it's a big mine, and goodness knows how far the galleries run. Strikes me that your guv'nors are going to be rich men and—Hullo! What's he been doing there?"

The boys turned, on seeing the direction of the mine captain's gaze, and they saw Tom Dinass's back, as he stood, cap in hand, talking to someone inside the office door—someone proving to be the Colonel.

"Been to ask to be taken on to work at the mine," said Gwyn.

"But that won't do, my lads," cried Hardock, excitedly. "We want to be all friends here, and he belongs to the enemy. They can't take him on! It would mean trouble, as sure as you're both there. Oh, they wouldn't engage he."

Hardock said no more, for Dinass had seen them as he turned from the office door, and came toward them at once.

"Are you?" he said to Hardock, without the 'How'; and the captain nodded in a sulky way.

"What do you want here?" he said.

"Just whatever you like, captain. I'm an old hand, and ready for anything. The guv'nors have took me on, and I'm come to work."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

SAM HARDOCK DISAPPROVES.

Clank, clank! and wash, wash! The great pump worked and the water came up clear and bright, to rush along the channel cut in the floor of the adit and pour from the end like a feathery waterfall into the sea, the spray being carried like a shower of rain for far enough on a breezy day. But there seemed to be no end to it, and the proprietors began to look anxious.

Still Hardock's face was always cheery.

"Only because she's so big underground, and there's such a lot to get out, you see, my lads. She's right enough. Why, that water's been collecting from perhaps long before I was born. We shall get her dry some day."

But Dinass, who somehow always seemed to be near when the boys were about the mine, looked solemn, and as soon as Hardock's back was turned he gave Gwyn a significant wink.

"I only hope he's right," said the man.

"Then you don't know he is?" said Joe, sharply.

"I don't say nothing, young gents, nothing at all; but that pump's been going long enough now to empty any mine, and yet, if you both go and look at the water, you'll see it's coming as fast as ever and just as clear."

"Because they haven't got to the bottom of it yet," said Gwyn.

"It aren't that, young gentleman," said Dinass, mysteriously. "Of course it aren't my business, but if the mine belonged to me I should begin to get uncomfortable."

"Why?" asked Joe.

"Because I should be thinking that the old folks who digged this mine had to come up it in a hurry one day."

"Why?—because there were bogies and goblins in it?"

"No, sir, because they broke through one day into an underground river; and you can't never pump dry a place like that. But there, I don't know, gentlemen—that's only what I think."

The man went about his work, over which he was so assiduous that even Hardock could not complain, and the latter soon after encountered the lads.

"Don't say Dinass told us," whispered Gwyn. "Sam hates him badly enough as it is. Let him think that it's our own idea."

"Not got to the bottom of the water yet, then?" said Gwyn.

"No, sir—not yet, not yet," replied the captain, blandly; "and it won't come any the quicker for you joking me about it."

"But aren't you beginning to lose heart?"

"Lose heart? Wouldn't do to lose heart over a mine, sir. No, no; man who digs in the earth for metals mustn't lose heart."

"But we're not digging, only pumping."

"But we might begin in one of these galleries nearly any time, sir. I've been down, and I've seen better stuff than they're getting in some of the mines, I can tell you, sir. But we'd better have the water well under first."

"But suppose you are never going to get it under?"

"Eh? No, I don't s'pose anything of the kind. It's fresh water, and we must soon bottom it."

"But suppose it's an underground river, Sam?" said Joe, sharply.

"Underground river, my lad? Then that will be a fine chance for you two. I should be for getting my tackle ready, and going fishing as soon as the water's low enough. Who knows what you might ketch?"

"Nothing to laugh at, Sam," said Gwyn, sternly. "If there should prove to be an underground stream, you'll never pump the mine dry."

"Never, sir, and I shouldn't like to try; but," the man continued with a twinkle of the eye, "the steam-engine will. That's the beauty of these things—they never get tired. Here's the guv'nors."

Colonel Pendarve came up with the Major, both looking very serious, and evidently troubled by the slow progress over the water.

"Been down the shaft, Hardock?" said the former.

"Yes, sir; just come up."

"Any better news?" said the Major, quickly.

"No, sir; it's just about the same. Couldn't be better."

"Not be better, man! The anxiety is terrible."

"Oh, no, sir," said Hardock; "that's only because you worry yourself over it. Water's been steadily sinking ever since we began to pump."

"But so slowly—so slowly, man."

"Yes, sir, but there's the wonder of it. Place is bigger than we expected."

"Then the water is falling, Hardock?" said the Colonel.

"Yes, sir, steady and sure; and whenever the pump has been stopped, the water hasn't risen, which is the best sign of all."

"Yes; we must have patience, Jollivet, and wait."

"Yes, sir," put in Hardock; "and if I might make so bold as to speak I wouldn't engage anyone else for the present. When the mine's dry it will be time enough."

"No; better get recruits while we can," said the Colonel.

"But you have ideas on paying wages, sir, and I fancy I know the best sort of men we want."

"Ah, you don't like the man Dinass," said the Colonel.

"No, sir, I don't; not at all."

"But you said he worked well and knew his business."

"Yes, sir; but I don't like him none the more."

"Petty jealousy, my man, because you did not have a word in the business. Come along, Major, and let's see how the pump's getting on."

"Jealousy," grunted Hardock; "just as if I'd be jealous of a chap like that. What yer laughing at, Mr Gwyn?"

"You, Sam. Why, you're as jealous of Dinass as you can be."

"Think so, sir? What do you say, Mr Joe Jollivet?"

"Didn't say anything, but I thought so. You're afraid of his taking your place as foreman or captain."

"Me?" cried the man, indignantly. "'Fraid of an odd-job sort of a chap, took on like out of charity, being able to take my place? Come, I do like that, Master Joe. What do you think of it, Mr Gwyn?"

"Think Joe Jollivet's right," said Gwyn, hotly; and Hardock turned upon him angrily,—

"Well, aren't it enough to make me, sir. Here was I out of work through mine after mine being advertised, and none of 'em a bit of good. And what do I do but sit down and puzzle and think out what could be done, till I hit upon Ydoll and went up and examined it, and looked at bits of stuff that I found on the bank and round about the mouth, till I was sure as sure that it was a good thing that had never been properly worked, or they wouldn't have pitched away the good ore they did. Though what could you expect from people ever so long ago who had no proper machinery to do things with; and the more I work here the more I'm sure of there being heaps of good stuff to be got. Well, what do I do? Talks to you young gents about it, don't I? and then your fathers laugh at it all, and I'm regularly upset till they took the idea up. Then I set to and got the place in going order, and it's bound to be a very big thing, and all my doing, as you may say; and then up comes Mr Dinass to shove his nose in like the thin edge of a wedge. How would you both like it if it was you?"

"Well, I shouldn't like it at all," said Gwyn.

"Of course, you wouldn't, sir, nor Mr Joe neither; and I just tell Mr Tom Dinass this: so long as he goes on and does his work, well and good—I sha'n't quarrel with him; but if he comes any underhanded games and tries to get me out of my place, I'll go round the mine with him."

"You'll do what?" cried Joe.

"See how deep the mine is with him, sir, and try how he likes that."

Sam Hardock gave the lads a very meaning nod and walked away, leaving the pair looking inquiringly at each other.

"He'd better mind what he's about," said Joe. "That Tom Dinass is an ugly customer if he's put out."

"Yes, but it's all talk," said Gwyn. "People don't pitch one another down mines; and besides, you couldn't pitch anyone down our mine on account of the platforms. Why, you couldn't drop more than fifteen or twenty feet anywhere."

"No, but it would be very ugly if those two were to quarrel and fight."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A MENTAL KINK.

The time went on, with the carpenters and engineers hard at work. As fast as the water was lowered enough, fresh platforms were placed across the shaft. After a little consideration and conference with Hardock, it was decided not to let the men go up and down the mine by means of ladders on account of the labour and loss of time, but to erect one of the peculiar beams used in some mines, the platforms being at equal distances favouring the arrangement.

The boys were present at the consultation, and when it was over they went off for a stroll, Grip following in a great state of excitement, and proceeding to stalk the gulls whenever he saw any searching for spoil on the grassy down at the top of the cliffs.

But the dog had no success. The gulls always saw him coming, and let him creep pretty near before giving a few hops with outstretched wings, and then sailing away just above his head, leaving him snapping angrily and making his futile bounds.

After a time the boys threw themselves on the grass at the top of one of the highest cliffs, from whence they could look down through the transparent sea at the purply depths, or at the pale-green shallows, where the sand had drifted, or again, at where all the seaweed was of a rich golden brown.

It was a lovely day, and in the offing the tints on the sea were glorious, but the boys had no eyes for anything then. So to speak, they were looking back at the meeting which had just taken place at Colonel Pendarve's.

"Father looked very serious about these lift things," said Gwyn, at last.

"Enough to make him; it's nothing but pay, pay, pay. I want to see them get to work and make money. It will be skilly and bread for us if the mine fails."

"'Tisn't going to fail. Don't be a coward. See what a grand thing this new apparatus will be."

"Will it?" said Joe. "I don't understand it a bit."

"Why, it's easy enough."

"I can understand about a bucket or a cage, let up and down by a rope running over a wheel, but this seems to me to be stupid."

"Nonsense! It's you who are stupid. Can't you see that a great beam is to go from the top to the bottom of the mine?"

"That's nonsense. Where are they going to get one long enough?"

"Can't they join a lot together till it is long enough, old Wisdom teeth? Of course, it will have to be made in bits, and put together."

"Well, what then?" cried Joe.

"What then? Sam Hardock and the engineer explained it simply enough. The beam is to have a little standing-place on it at every eighteen feet."

"Yes, I understand that, and it's to be attached to an engine lever which will raise it eighteen feet, and then lower it eighteen feet."

"Of course. Well, what's the good of pretending you did not understand?"

"I didn't pretend; I don't understand."

Gwyn laughed.

"You are a fellow! There'll be a ledge for a man to stand on, all down the beam from top to bottom exactly opposite the regular platform."

"Yes, I understand that."

"Well, then, what is it you don't understand?" cried Gwyn, smiling.

"How it works."

"Why, you said you did just now. Oh, I say, Jolly-wet, what a foggy old chap you are. You said as plain as could be, that the beam rose and fell eighteen feet."

"Oh, yes, I said that, but I don't understand about the men."

"Well, you are a rum one, Joe. Is it real, or are you making believe?"

"Real. Now, suppose it was us who wanted to go down."

"Well, suppose it was us."

"What do we do?"

"Why, we—"

"No, no, let me finish. I say, what do we do? We step on the ledge attached to the beam?"

"Of course we do, only one at a time."

"Very well, then, one at a time. Then down goes the beam eighteen feet to the next platform."

"Yes, and then up it rises again eighteen feet, and most likely there'd be a man on every ledge, from top to bottom."

"Well, what's the good of that?"

"Good? Why, so that the men can ride up or down when they're tired, and do away with the ladders."

"Isn't that absurd? I'm sure my father never meant to put a lot of money into this thing so as to give the men a ride up and down on a patent see-saw."

"Oh I say, Joe, what a chap you are! What have you got in your head?"

"This old see-saw that Hardock and the engineer want us to have, of course."

"Well, can't you see how good it will be?"

"No, I can't, nor you neither."

"But don't you see it sends the men all down eighteen feet into the mine?"

"Of course I can. Never mind the men. Suppose it's me, and I step on. It sends me down eighteen feet."

"Yes, at one stride, and then comes up again; can't you see that?"

"Of course, I can. It comes up again, and brings me up with it, ready to go down again. Why, it's no good. It will be only like a jolly old up-and-down."

Gwyn stared at his companion.

"What are you talking about?" he said, but in a less confident tone.

"You know, this gimcrack thing that was to do so much. Why the idea's all wrong. Don't you see?"

Gwyn stared at his companion again.

"Nonsense!" he cried, "it's all right. There'll be a man step on to it at every platform, and then down he'll go."

"Of course, and when he has gone down eighteen or twenty feet, up he'll come again. It sounds very pretty, but it's all a muddle. It's just like the story of the man who wanted to go to America, so he went up in a balloon and stayed there for hours and waited till the world had turned round enough, so as to come down in America."

"Oh, but this is all right; they explained it exactly to my father, and I saw it all plainly enough then: it was as clear as could be," said Gwyn, thoughtfully. "A man stepped on and went down."

"Yes, and the beam rose and he came up again."

Gwyn scratched his head and looked regularly puzzled, and the more he tried to see the plan clearly, the more confused he grew.

"Here, I can't make it out now," he said at last.

"Of course you can't, my lad; it's all wrong."

"But if it is, there will be a terrible loss."

"To be sure there will."

"Let's go and talk to my father about it."

"Or mine," said Joe.

"Our place is nearest, or perhaps father's in the office," cried Gwyn, excitedly. "Mind, I don't say you're right, because I seemed to see it all so clearly, though it has all turned misty and stupid like now."

"I know how it was," said Joe. "Sam Hardock had got the idea in his head, and he explained it all so that it seemed right; but it isn't, and the more I think about it, the more I wonder that no one saw what a muddle it was before."

"Gammon!" cried Gwyn, springing up, and the two lads started back toward the mine; but they were not destined to reach it then, for they had not gone above a hundred yards along by the edge of the cliff, when they came upon Dinass seated with his back to a rock, smoking his pipe and gazing out to sea between his half-closed eyelids.

"Hallo!" shouted Gwyn; "what are you doing here?"

"Smoking," said the man, coolly.

"Well, I can see that," cried Gwyn. "How is it you are not at work?"

"'Cause a man can't go on for ever without stopping. Man aren't a clock, as only wants winding up once a week; must have rest sometimes."

"Well, you have the night for rest," said Gwyn, sharply.

"Sometimes," said Dinass; "but I was working the pump all last night."

"Oh, then you're off work to-day?"

"That's so, young gentleman, and getting warm again in the sun. It was precious cold down there in the night, and I got wet right through to my backbone. I'm only just beginning to get a bit dried now."

"Look here, Ydoll," said Joe, sharply; "he'll have been talking to Sam Hardock about it, I know. Here, Tom Dinass, what about that hobby up-and-down thing Sam Hardock wants to have in the mine?"

"'Stead of ladders? Well, what about it?"

"It's all nonsense, isn't it?"

"Well, I shouldn't call it nonsense," said the man, thoughtfully, as he took his pipe out of his mouth and sat thinking.

"What do you call it, then?" said Joe.

"Mellancolly, sir, that's what I call it—mellancolly."

"Because it won't work?" cried Joe.

"But it would work, wouldn't it?" said Gwyn.

"Oh, yes, sir, it would work," said the man, "because the engine would pump it up and down."

"Of course it would," said Joe; "but what's the use of having a thing that pumps up and down, unless it's to bring up water?"

"Ay, but this is a thing as pumps men up and down," said Dinass.

"Gammon! It's impossible."

Dinass looked at him in astonishment.

"No, it aren't," he said gruffly. "I've been pumped up and down one times enough, so I ought to know."

"You have?" said Gwyn, eagerly.

"Ay, over Redruth way."

"There, then it is right," cried Gwyn. "I knew it was. What an old jolly wet blanket you are, Joe!"

"But it can't be right," cried Joe, stubbornly. "Here you get on a bit of a shelf and stand there and the beam goes down twenty feet."

"Nay, it don't," said Dinass, interrupting; "only twelve foot."

"Well it's all the same—it might be twenty feet, mightn't it?"

"I s'pose so, sir. Ones I've seen only goes twelve foot at a jog."

"Twelve feet, then; and then it jigs up again," cried Joe.

"Ay, just like a pump. Man-engines they call 'em," said Dinass; "but I have heard 'em called farkuns."

[Note: Fahr-Kunst. First used in the Harz Mountain mines.]

"Then you've seen more than one?" cried Gwyn.

"More than one, sir! I should think I have!"

"And they do go well?"

"Oh, yes, sir, they go well enough after a fashion."

"Can't," cried Joe.

"But they do, sir," said Dinass. "I've seen 'em and gone down deep mines on 'em."

"Now you didn't—you went down twelve feet," said Joe, more stubbornly than ever.

"Yes, sir, twelve foot at a time."

"And then came up twelve feet."

"That's right, sir."

"Then what's the good of them if they only give you a ride up and down twelve feet?"

"To take you to the bottom."

"But they can't," cried Joe.

"I dunno about can't!" said the man, gruffly; "all I know is that they do take 'em up or down whenever you like, and saves a lot of time, besides being (I will say that for 'em) a regular rest."

"What, through just stepping on a shelf of the beam and stopping there?"

"Who said anything about stopping there?" cried the man, roughly. "You steps on to the shelf and down goes the beam twelve foot, and you steps off on to a bit o' platform. Up goes the beam and brings the next shelf level with you, and on you gets to that. Down you go another twelve foot, or another twenty-four. Steps off, up comes the next shelf, and you steps on. Down she goes again, and you steps on and off, and on and off, going down twelve foot at a time, till you're at the bottom, or where you want to be part of the way down at one of the galleries."

"Of course," cried Gwyn, triumphantly. "I knew it was German, all right, only I got a bit foggy over it when you said it wasn't."

"But—"

"I knew there was something. We forgot about stepping off and letting the beam rise."

Joe scratched his head.

"Don't you see now?" cried Gwyn.

"Beginning to: not quite," said Joe, still in the same confused way. Then, with a start, he gave his leg a hearty slap. "Why, of course," he cried, "I see it all clearly enough now. You step on and go down, and then step on and go up, and then you step on—and step on. Oh, I say, how is it the thing does work after all?"

"Why you—" began Gwyn, roaring with laughter the while, but Joe interrupted him.

"No, no; I've got it all right now. I see clearly enough. But it is puzzling. What an obstinate old block you were, Ydoll."

"Eh? Oh, come, I like that," cried Gwyn. "Why you—" Then seeing the mirthful look on his companion's face he clapped him on the shoulder. "You did stick to it, though, that it wouldn't go, and no mistake."

"Well, I couldn't see it anyhow. It was a regular puzzle," said Joe, frankly. "But I say, Tom Dinass, what made you call these man-engines melancholy things?"

"'Cause of the mischief they doos, sir. I do hope you won't have one here."

"Why? What mischief do they do?" cried Gwyn.

"Kills the poor lads sometimes. Lad doesn't step on or off at the right time, and he gets chopped between the step and the platform. It's awful then. 'Bliged to be so very careful."

"Man who goes down a mine ought to be very careful."

"O' course, sir; but they things are horrid bad. I don't like 'em."

"But they can't be so dangerous as ladders, or going down in a bucket at the end of a string or chain; you might fall, or the chain might break. Such things do happen," said Gwyn.

"Ay, sir, they do sometimes; but I don't like a farkun. Accident's an accident, and you must have some; but these are horrid, and we shall be having some accident with that dog of yours if we don't mind."

"Accident?" said Gwyn. "What do you mean?"

"He'll be a-biting me, and I shall have to go into horspittle."

"Oh, he won't hurt you," cried Gwyn.

"Don't know so much about that, sir," said the man, grinning. "I should say if he did bite he would hurt me a deal. Must have a precious nice pair o' legs, or he wouldn't keep smelling 'em as he does, and then stand licking his jaws."

"I tell you he won't hurt you," cried Gwyn. "Here, Grip—come away."

The dog looked up at his master, and passed his tongue about his lower jaw.

"Look at that, sir," said Dinass, laughing; but there was a peculiar look in his eyes. "Strikes me as he'd eat cold meat any day without pickles."

"I'll take care he sha'n't bite your legs, with or without pickles," said Gwyn, laughing. "Come along, Joe, and let's go and have a talk to Sam Hardock about the—what did he call it—far—far—what?"

"I don't know," replied Joe; "but somehow I wish Master Tom Dinass hadn't been taken on."

"Going to have a man-engine, are they?" muttered Dinass, as he sat watching the two lads from the corners of his eyes. "Seems to me that things have gone pretty nigh far enough, and they'll have to be stopped. Won't eat my legs with or without pickles, won't he? No, he won't if I know it. Getting pretty nigh all the water out too. Well, I daresay there'll be enough of it to drown that dog."



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

GRIP TAKES AN INTEREST.

"Now, Joe, this ought to be a big day," said Gwyn, one bright morning. "Father's all in a fidget, and he looked as queer at breakfast as if he hadn't slept all night."

"Wasn't any as if," replied Joe; "my father says he didn't sleep a wink for thinking about the mine."

"Oh, but people often say they haven't slept a wink when they've been snoring all the night. See how the fellows used to say it at Worksop. I never believed them."

"But when father says it you may believe him, for when he has fits of the old jungle fever come back, I'm obliged to give him his doses to make him sleep."

"Well I woke ever so many times wondering whether it was time to get up. Once the moon was shining over the sea, and it was lovely. It would have been a time to have gone off to Pen Ree Rocks congering."

"Ugh, the beasts!" exclaimed Joe. "But, I say, what a thing it will be if the place turns out no good after all this trouble and expense."

"Don't talk about it," said Gwyn. "But Sam says it's right enough."

"And Tom Dinass shakes his head and says—as if he didn't believe it could be—that he hopes it may turn out all right, but he doubts it."

"Tom Dinass is a miserable old frog croaker. Sam knows. He says there's no doubt about it. The mine's rich, and it must have been worked in the old days in their rough way, without proper machinery, till the water got the better of them, and they had to give it up."

"I hope it is so," said Joe, with a sigh. "But, I say, what about going down?"

"Your father won't go down."

"Oh, yes, he will. He says he shall go in the skep if your father does."

"Oh, my father will go, of course; but he said I'd better not go till the mine was more dry, and the man-engine had been made and fitted."

"Hurrah! Glad of it!"

"What do you mean by that?" cried Gwyn, angrily.

"What I say! I don't see why you should be allowed to go, and me stay up at grass."

"Humph! Just the place for you," said Gwyn.

"And what do you mean by that?" cried Joe, angrily in turn.

"Proper place for a donkey where there's plenty of grass."

"Ah, now you've got one of your nasty disagreeable fits on. Just like a Cornishman—I mean boy."

"Better be a Cornish chap than a Frenchy."

"Frenchy! We've been long enough in England to be English now," cried Joe. "But it's too hard for us not to go."

"Regular shame!" said Gwyn. "I've been longing for this day so as to have a regular examination. It must be a wonderful place, Joe. Quite a maze."

"Oh, I don't know," said Joe, superciliously; "just a long hole, and when you've seen one bit you've seen all."

"That's what the fox said to the grapes," said Gwyn, with a laugh.

"No, he didn't; he said they were sour."

"Never mind; it's just your way. The place will be wonderful. There are sure to be plenty of crystals and stalactites and wonderful caverns and places. Oh, I do wish we were going down."

"I don't know that I do now—the place will be horribly damp."

"Fox again."

"Look here, Gwyn Pendarve, if you wish to quarrel, say so, and I'll go somewhere else."

"But I don't want to quarrel, Joseph Jollivet, Esquire," said Gwyn, imitating the other's stilted way of speaking. "What's the good of quarrelling with you?"

Joe picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could, so as to get rid of some of his irritability; and Grip, who had been sitting watching the boys, wondering what was the matter, went off helter-skelter, found the stone, and brought it back crackling against his sharp white teeth, dropped it at Joe's feet, and began to dance about and make leaps from the ground, barking, as if saying, "Throw it again—throw it again!"

"Lie down, you old stupid!" cried Gwyn.

"Let him have a run," said Joe, picking up the stone and jerking it as far as he could over the short grassy down, the dog tearing off again.

"Ugh! Look at your hand," said Gwyn, "all wet with the dog's 'serlimer,' as the showman called it."

"Oh, that's clean enough," said Joe; but he gave his hand a rub on the grass all the same.

The dog came back panting, and Joe picked up the stone to give it another jerk, but, looking round for a fresh direction in which to throw it, he dropped the piece of granite.

"Come on!" he shouted, as he started off; "they're going to the shaft."

Gwyn glanced in the direction of the mine, and started after Joe, raced up to him, and they ran along to the building over the mouth, getting there just at the same time as the Colonel and Major Jollivet, the dog coming frantically behind.

"Well, boys," cried the Colonel, "here we are, you see. Wish us luck."

"Of course I do, father," said Gwyn. "But you'd better let us come, too."

"No, no, no, no," said the Colonel, "better wait a bit. Besides, you are not dressed for it. We are, you see."

He smilingly drew attention to their shooting caps and boots and long mackintoshes.

"Yes," said the Major, laughing, "we're ready for a wet campaign."

Gwyn was not in the habit of arguing with his father, whose quietest words always carried with them a military decision which meant a great deal, so he was silent, and contented himself with a glance at Joe, who took his cue from him and remained quiet.

Several of the men were there standing about the square iron-bound box attached by a wire rope to a wheel overhead, and known as the skep, which, with another, would be the conveyances of the ore that was to be found, from deep down in the mine to the surface, or, as the miners termed it, to grass; and until the man-engine was finished this was the ordinary way up and down.

There was Sam Hardock, muffled up in flannel garments, and wearing a leather cap like a helmet, with a brim, in front of which was his feather represented by a thick tallow candle. He was armed with a stout pick in his belt, and the Colonel and Major both carried large geological hammers.

Tom Dinass was there, too, in charge with the engineer of the skep, to ensure a safe descent.

Then there were lanthorns, and Hardock, in addition, bore by a strap over his shoulder what looked like a large cartouche box, but its contents were to re-load the lanthorns, being thick tallow candles.