Gwyn opened the lanthorn and found that the candle was half burned down, and for a moment he thought of setting up another in its place, for fear he should go to sleep and it should burn out.

"Be such a pity," he said, "we don't want light while we're asleep; only to wake up here in this horrible place is enough to drive anybody mad."

Then he closed the lanthorn again.

"I sha'n't go to sleep," he muttered. "In too much trouble." And he began thinking in a sore, dreary way of his mother seated at home waiting for news of his father and of him.

"It'll nearly kill her," he said. "But she'll like it for me to have come here in search of poor dad. It would have been so cowardly if I hadn't come, and she would have felt ashamed of me. Yes, she'll like my dying like this."

He paused, for his thoughts made him ponder.

"We can't be going to die," he said to himself, "or we shouldn't be taking it all so easily and be so quiet and calm. If we felt that we really were going to die, we should be half mad with horror, and run shrieking about till we dropped in a fit. No," he said softly, "it isn't like that. People on board ship, when they know it's going to sink, all behave quite calmly and patiently. There was that ship that was being burned with the soldiers on board. They all stood up before their officers, waiting for the end, and went down at last like men. But I don't feel despairing like, and as if we were going to die."

Then he began to think of his peaceful home life, and of the days at school till about a year ago, when he had come home to study military matters with his father and Major Jollivet, prior to being sent to one of the military colleges in about a year's time.

"And now this mining has altered everything," mused Gwyn, "and—"

He started violently, sprang up, and looked about him, for his name had been uttered loudly close to his ear.

But all was still now, and a curious creepy sensation ran through him and made him shiver with apprehension—a strange, superstitious kind of apprehension, as if something invisible were close to him.

"What a cowardly donkey!" he muttered, for his name was uttered again, and plainly enough it came from Joe.

"Talking in his sleep; and I was ready to fancy it was something 'no canny.' Why I must have been dropping off to sleep, too, and it startled me into wakefulness. This won't do. Sentries must not sleep at their posts."

He began to do what the soldiers call "sentry go." But in a few minutes he grew so weary and hot that he was glad to stop by his sleeping companion, and stand looking down at him lying so peacefully there with his head upon his hand.

"Just as if he were in a feather bed and with a soft pillow under his cheek. Wish I could lie down and have a nap for half-an-hour. I will, and then he can have another."

Gwyn bent down to waken his companion, who just then burst out with a merry laugh.

"Oh, I say, father, you shouldn't," he said. "Just as if I didn't take care. It isn't—"

"Isn't what, Joe?" said Gwyn, softly.

"The wrong bottle. You're always thinking I give you the wrong medicine, and saying it tastes different. Hah!"

He ended with a long deep sigh of content, and lay perfectly silent.

"I can't wake him," muttered Gwyn; and with a weary groan he seated himself once more, supporting his back against the side of the gallery, for he was too weak and tired to stand, and in an instant he was out in the bright sunshine, with the water making the boat he was in dance and the sail flap, as he glided along out of the cave into the open sea. Then with a violent start he was awake again, drawing himself up and fighting hard against terrible odds, for Nature said that he was completely exhausted, and must rest.

And as he set his teeth and stared hard at the faintly glittering wall opposite, where the great vein of milk-white quartz was spangled with grains of tin, his head bowed down and dropped forward till his chin touched his chest.

Again he sprang up, to prop his head back against the rock, but it had been hacked away so that it curved over and seemed to join Nature in her efforts to master him and force him to sleep, bending down his head and sending it in the old direction, so that his brow seemed heavier than lead, and he bent it lower and lower, while once more he was out on the glittering waters of the sea, the boat bounding rapidly along and all trouble at an end. For the darkness of the cavernous mine was gone, with all its weary horrors—there was nothing to mind, nothing to do, but sink lower and lower in the boat, and rest.

Hard—angular—stony? The granite chipped by hammer and pick felt like the softest down, as Gwyn swayed slowly over to his left, his shoulders rubbing against the wall and his half-braced muscles involuntarily acting in obedience to his will to keep him upright, so that he did not fall, but gently subsided till he was lying prone close to the lanthorn, which shed its faint yellowish light and cast dim shadows which, there in that gloomy spot, looked like a couple of graves newly banked up to mark the spots where the two lads had lain down to die or to be found and live, whichever fate ordained.

Joe must have slept for what was guessed to be a couple of hours; but they had passed, and he still slept on, with his rest growing more and more sweet and restful, while for Gwyn there was nothing but profound silence and vacancy. He did not dream—only plunged deeper and deeper into the stupor till six hours had passed away, and then the dream came.

A terrible wild dream of being somewhere in great danger—a place from which there was no escape from a dangerous wolf-like beast, which had followed him for hours, and was slowly hunting him down.

And every moment the vision grew more real, and the fierce beast came closer and closer in spite of his efforts to escape—mad, frantic efforts—while every limb was like lead, and held him back so that he might be the monster's prey.

He felt that it was a delusion, and that he must soon wake and find relief; but when he did, the relief did not come for the horrors of the dream were continued in the reality, and his lips parted to utter a wild cry; but lips, tongue, and throat were all parched and dry, and he lay there in an agony which seemed maddening.

There was no question now of where he was, for though it was intensely dark he knew well enough, for he had awakened into full consciousness with every sense unnaturally sharpened, and making things clear. His limbs were like lead still, but it was not from nightmare, for they were numbed and helpless. There was the unpleasant odour of the burnt-out candle, and the sickly smoke hanging about him, as if the light had but lately gone out, and he could hear Joe's stertorous breathing as if he too were in trouble; and simultaneously with it came the knowledge that, after all, the cavernous place out of which the water had been drained was inhabited by strange beasts, one of which had attacked him.

For the moment he was ready to explain it as a form of nightmare, but it was too real. It was the hard stern reality itself. There was the weight upon his chest, but not the heavy inert mass of a hideous dream, but that of some creature full of palpitating life extended upon him. He could feel the motion as it breathed, the heavy pulsations of its heart, and, worst horror of all, the hot breath from its panting jaws not many inches from his brow.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

MAN'S GOOD FRIEND.

Gwyn tried hard to cry aloud to his companion for help—to make an effort for life; but for what seemed to him to be a long space of time he could not stir. At last, though, when he could bear the horror no longer, and just as the creature moved as if gathering its legs beneath it like some cat about to spring, the boy made a sudden heave, and threw the beast from his chest, at the same time struggling to rise and make for where he felt that Joe was lying; but with a strange, hollow cry the animal sprang at him with such force that he was driven backwards, while the creature regained its position upon his chest, and Gwyn lay back half paralysed.

But not from fear. Astonishment and delight had that effect, and, weak and prostrated as he was for some moments, he could not speak.

At last one word escaped from his lips, and in an instant—throb, throb, throb, throb—there was a heavy beating on his ribs, a joyous whining sound greeted his ears, and a cold nose and wet tongue were playing about his face.

"Oh, Grip! Grip! Grip!" he sobbed out at last, half hysterical with excitement; and seizing the dog by the neck he held him fast, while Grip burst now into a frantic paroxysm of barking.

"You good old dog, then you have found us," cried Gwyn, as he sat up now and held on tightly to the dog's collar, for fear he should be left again. "Why, there must be someone with him! Here, Grip, Grip, old chap, your master! Where is he, then?"

There was another frantic burst of barking, and Joe's voice was heard out of the darkness.

"What's that? What does it mean? Hi! Ydoll, are you there?"

"Yes, yes. Here's Grip! And—and—they must be—Oh, Joe, Joe, I can't—"

What it was that Gwyn Pendarve could not do was never heard, for he pressed his lips together and clenched his teeth to keep back all sound. He had no longer any control over himself, and in those anguished moments he felt, as he afterwards declared to himself, that he was acting like a girl.

Joe was nearly as bad, but it was in the darkness and there was no one to witness their emotion, as he too kept silence, fearing to hear even his own voice; so that Grip had the whole of the conversation to himself—a repetition that at another time would have been monotonous, but which now sounded musical in the extreme.

At last Gwyn recovered his equanimity to some extent, and, taking out the matches, struck one, but the moisture of his fingers prevented it from igniting, and he had to try two more before he could get anything but soft phosphorescent streaks on the box; and as the damp matches were thrown down, Grip sniffed at them and whined loudly.

Then one flashed out brilliantly, lighting up the darkness, was watched excitedly, and began to blaze up and transfer its illuminating powers to the one candle the boys had left, one which was directly after safely sheltered by the glass of the lanthorn.

At this point the joy of the dog was unbounded, and was shown in leaps, bounds and frantic barking, accompanied by rushes and sham worryings of his master's legs; and when driven off, he favoured Joe in the same way.

"Only to think of it," cried Joe, "that dog following us and running us down in the dark! How could he have done it? I never heard that dogs could see in the dark like cats."

"They can't," said Gwyn, going down on his knees to give the dog a hug. "A jolly old chap—they see with their noses; don't you, old Grip?"

"Whuf!" cried the dog; and he made a frantic effort to lick his master's face.

"It's wonderful!" cried Joe, excitedly.

"Yes, makes a fellow wish he had a nose like a dog. Why, Jolly, we could have found our way out, then."

"Don't see it," said Joe, who was in a peculiarly excited state, which made him ready to laugh or cry at the slightest provocation.

"Don't see it! Of course you don't. Couldn't we have smelt our way out by our own track, same as he did? But bother all that. Why, Jolly, if I could only feel sure that the dads were safe out, I shouldn't care a bit."

"No; I shouldn't either. Oh, I say, isn't it a relief?"

"Yes, and so I feel all right. They're out: I'm sure of it."

"How do you know?"

"By Grip being here."

"That doesn't prove it."

"Yes it does. I know! Father said, 'I'll send Grip down; he'll find them.'"

"Well, it does sound likely; but I say, Ydoll, isn't it queer?"

"What, being here?"

"No; while I was so miserable and feeling as I did, I was only faint; now I feel so hungry I could eat anything."

"Same here," said Gwyn; "but it's all right; they're out; father sent Grip—didn't he, Grip?"

The dog barked loudly and leaped up at him.

"There, hear him? He understands," cried Gwyn; but Joe shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "The dog found us right enough, but that doesn't prove that he'll find his way back."

"He'd better," said Gwyn with mock earnestness; "if he doesn't we'll eat him. Do you hear, sir?"

The dog barked again.

"It's all right," said Gwyn, merrily. "Now then, pack up, and let's go home—do you hear, Grip?"

The dog threw up his head and barked loudly.

"Ready, Joe?"

"Ready—of course."

"Come on, then. Now, Grip, old fellow, lead the way. Go home!"

The dog barked again, and trotted in the opposite direction to which they had expected, making for the partly driven gallery where the roof ran up, showing how the lode of tin had ascended; and when he reached the blank end beginning to bark loudly.

"Come back, stupid!" cried Gwyn; "we found that out ourselves. That's the end of the mine. All right. Now, lead the way home."

But the dog barked again loudly; and it was not until Gwyn followed to the end and seized his collar that he gave up. "Now then, off with you, but don't go too fast. Forward! Quick march!"

The lad had straddled across the dog, holding him between his knees, with head pointed as he believed in the direction of the shaft; and at the last sound he unloosed him from the grip of his knees, and the dog started steadily off, and they followed, but in a few minutes had to take to running, for, after looking back several times to see if he was followed, Grip increased his pace, and directly after disappeared in the darkness beyond the glow shed by the lanthorn.

"You've done it now," cried Joe. "Why didn't you make your handkerchief fast to his collar? He's gone home."

"Think so?" said Gwyn, blankly.

"Yes; that's certain enough; and we're just as badly off as ever."

"No," said Gwyn, in a tone full of confidence; "Grip found us, and he'll come back again for certain."

"But we shall have to stop where we are, perhaps for another day or two."

"Oh, no, he will not be long," said Gwyn; but there was less confidence in his tones, and he stopped short, and began to call and whistle, with the sounds echoing loudly along the tunnel-like place; but for some moments all was silent, and Joe gave vent to a groan.

"Oh, why did you let him go, Ydoll? It was madness."

"Well," said the lad, bitterly, "you were as bad as I—you never said a word about holding him."

"No, I never thought of it," said Joe, with a sigh. "But how horrid, after thinking we were all right!"

"Yet it is disappointing," said Gwyn, gloomily; "but he'll soon come back when he finds that we are not following him; and even if he went right back to them, they'd send him in again."

"I don't believe they did send him in," said Joe, despairingly.

"They must. He couldn't have climbed down the ladders or got into the skep of his own accord, and, if he had, they wouldn't have let him down. They sent him, I'm sure."

"No, I'm afraid not," said Joe, piteously; "they didn't send him."

"How do you know?"

"Because if they had, they would have done what people always do under such circumstances—written a note, and tied it to the dog's collar. He had no note tied to his collar, I'm sure."

"No, I didn't see or feel any," said Gwyn, thoughtfully.

"No; we should have been sure to see it if he had one; so, for certain, the dog came of his own will, and I don't think it's likely he'll come again. He may or he may not."

Gwyn did not feel as if he could combat this idea, for Joe's notion that a note would have been tied to the dog's collar—a note with a few encouraging words—seemed very probable; so he remained silent, listening intently for the faintest sound.

But the silence was more terrible than ever, and, saving the musical dash of water from time to time, and an occasional rustle as of a few grains of earth or sand trickling down from the walls, all was still.

"Hear him coming back?" said Gwyn, at last, very dismally.

"No, but there is something I keep hearing. Can't you?"

"I? No," said Gwyn, quickly. "What can you hear?—footsteps?"

"Oh, no; not that. It's a humming, rolling kind of noise, very, very faint; and I can't always hear it. I'm not sure it is anything but a kind of singing in my ears. There, I can hear it now. Can you?"

Gwyn listened intently.

"No. Perhaps it is only fancy. Listen again. Oh, that dog must come back."

Joe sat down, with the lanthorn beside him.

"Oh, don't give up like that!" cried Gwyn. "Let's make a fresh start, and try and find our way out."

"It's impossible—we can't without help."

"Don't I always tell you that a chap oughtn't to wait to be helped, but try to help himself?"

"Yes, you often preach," said Joe, dismally.

"Yes, and try too. Why, I—Ah! hear that?" cried Gwyn, excitedly.

"No," said Joe, after a pause.

"Don't be so stupid! You can—Listen!"

They held their breath, and plainly now came the barking of a dog.

"There!" cried Gwyn. "Here, here, here!" and he whistled before listening again, when there was the pattering of the dog's nails on the rocky floor, and almost directly after Grip bounded up to them.

"Ah, we mustn't have any more of that, old fellow," cried Gwyn, seizing the dog's collar, and patting him. "Get on, you old rascal; can't you see we've only got two legs apiece to your four?"

The dog strained to be off again, barking excitedly; but Gwyn held on while their neckerchiefs were tied together, and then fastened to the dog's collar.

"Now, then, forward once more. Come on, Joe, you must carry the lanthorn and walk by his head. Steady, stupid! We can't run. Walk, will you? Now, then, forward for home."

The dog barked and went off panting, with his tongue out and glistening in the light as the red end was curled, and he strained hard, as if bound to drag as much as he could behind him, while the boys' spirits steadily rose as their confidence in the dog's knowledge of the way back began to increase.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

TOO EAGER BY HALF.

"Think the candle will last, Jolly?" said Gwyn, after they had progressed for some time and the lanthorn door was opened.

"Plenty—yes," said Joe.

"Wish I knew there was enough and to spare," said Gwyn.

"Why?"

"Because I'd have a bite off the end. I'm so faint and hungry, it's quite horrible."

"Horrid!" exclaimed Joe.

"Not it. Nothing's horrid when you're starving. But I don't suppose it's very far as the crow flies."

"Crows don't fly in tin mines," said Joe, who was in better spirits now.

"Well, then, in a straight line."

"I don't believe there's a straight line in the place."

"I say, don't chop logic, Jolly, and don't—I say, look here, Grip, steady! don't pull a fellow's arm off!" interpolated Gwyn, for the dog tugged heavily at the neckerchiefs. "Look here, Joe, old chap, do talk gently to me, for I'm so hungry that I feel quite vicious, and just as if I could bite. Ah, would you get away! Steady, sir! We want to get home as badly as you do—for 'hoozza! we're homeward bound—bound; hoozza, we're homeward bound!'" sang the boy wildly.

"Don't you holloa till you're out of the wood."

"I wasn't holloaing," cried Gwyn, with hysterical merriment. "I was singing, only you've no ear for music."

"Not for such music as that. Hark at the echoes!—they sound just like howls."

"All right, but don't talk about getting out of the wood when we're like moles underground."

"Who's chopping logic now?"

"Oh, anybody. Steady, Grip, slow march."

"Does he pull so hard?"

"Horribly; but I don't mind—it shows he knows his way."

Grip barked and dragged at the improvised leash as if determined to hasten their pace.

"It's just like the greyhounds do over the coursing. But pull away, old chap! I say, though, isn't it hot now?"

"Yes, I'm bathed in perspiration. We must be very deep down."

"Oh, no, it's just about on a level; sometimes we go down, and sometimes up."

Splash, splash, splash, and then the dog's progress seemed to be checked, as the boys followed into a pool of water which filled all the tunnel to the sides.

"Stop!" cried Joe, as he waded to his knees.

"Why? What for?"

"Because we're going wrong."

"So I thought; but Grip ought to know."

"He can't, because we never came along here."

"No; but that proves he's right, for we never came along here, and we always lost ourselves."

"But it's getting deeper, and there's no knowing how deep it will be."

"Never mind; we must wade."

Joe went on, and the water was soon up to their waists, while the dog swam on.

"I'm sure Grip's going wrong," said Joe, excitedly, as the light of the lanthorn gleamed from the surface of what was now a narrow canal.

"Get on. Grip knows."

"He can't. It's impossible that he could have scented us over water."

"Yes, so it is," said Gwyn, anxiously; and he stopped, naturally checking the dog, who began to splash and to howl and bark angrily.

"Well, we must go on now. Perhaps it's the way he came."

"Couldn't be, because he was not wet."

"Well, I am right over my waist," said Gwyn. "Shall we go on? We can swim if it gets deeper."

"I say, let's try it a little farther." And holding the light well up, they waded on, with the water growing deeper, till it reached their chests and soon after their chins.

"Now then—go back or swim?" asked Gwyn.

"Oh, go on; Grip must know. I suppose the floor has gone down a good deal here."

"Can you keep the lanthorn out of the water? If you can't we must not go on; because it would be too horrible to swim here in the dark, and I don't know whether I could keep on with only one hand swimming and holding Grip with the other."

"He'd tow you along," said Joe.

"Halt! Hold the light higher," shouted Gwyn, and his words reverberated strangely.

Grate, grate, scratch, came a strange sound.

"Do you hear what I say?" cried Gwyn, excitedly.

"I can't, I can't—there isn't room."

"Then give it to me," said Gwyn, fiercely, from where he stood a few yards now in advance of his companion. "How am I to see what I'm doing?—and I know you'll have it in the water directly."

"Don't I tell you I can't?" cried Joe, wildly. "Can't you see there isn't room? I'm holding it close up to the roof now." And at a glance Gwyn saw that the roof was so low where they were that the gallery was nearly filled by the water.

"Oh, hang the dog!" cried Gwyn, desperately. "Quiet, sir! Come back!" for with the water steadily deepening it seemed madness to let the animal lure them on into what appeared to be certain death.

"Yes, yes, come back," panted Joe; "it's horrible. Here, Grip, Grip, Grip! Here, here, here!"

But the dog only whined and swam on, and then began to beat the water wildly as if he were drowning, for in his excitement and dread, Gwyn had now begun to haul upon the leash, dragging the dog partly under water in his efforts to get hold of its collar.

It was no easy task; for as the dog rose again, it was evidently frightened by its immersion beneath the surface, and began barking, whining, and struggling to escape from its master's grasp.

"What is it? What are you doing?" cried Joe, as he held the light close to the roof.

"Doing? Can't you see the dog's half mad. Quiet, Grip! What is it! Hold still, will you?"

But this seemed to be the last thing the poor beast was disposed to do; for the tie, drag under the surface, and the seizure by the collar were all suggestive to its benighted intellect of death by drowning; and just as Gwyn, chin-deep in the water now and hardly able from his natural buoyancy to keep his footing, was backing towards the light, holding by the collar with both hands, the dog gathered itself together with its hind-legs resting against its master's breast, and made a tremendous bound as if for life.

Gwyn had had some experience of the muscular power in a collie dog, but never till that moment did he fully realise what strength a desperate animal does possess; for that bound sent the dog forward and him backward; and completely off his balance, his head went down, his legs rose from his buoyancy in the water, and as he made a desperate effort to regain his feet, there came a sharp drag at the neckerchief he had twisted round his hand, and he was dragged under in turn and towed along for some moments before he could get his head above the surface of the black water again. Then, obeying his natural instinct, he struck out and began to swim, feeling himself drawn steadily along by the dog farther and farther from the light which gleamed from the water, and into the black darkness and the unknown depths.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

THE HELP AT LAST.

Joe uttered a groan, and began to wade after his companion, scraping the lanthorn against the roof from time to time in his agitation. He would have called to Gwyn to come back, but he could not find the words. He felt, though, that he must follow to help him, and began to wonder whether he could keep the light above water with one hand as he swam; and he prepared to try, for he felt that he must strike out as soon as the water touched his chin.

Then he paused, for from out of the darkness, and loud above the splashing, came Gwyn's angry words to the dog.

"You wretch! Come back!" he roared. "Wait till I get out of this, and I'll give you such a licking as will make your coat rougher than ever. Come back, will you!"

Grip made no sign of hearing, but swam on with all his might, and as he swam with one hand, Gwyn kept on lowering his feet to try for the bottom; but the dog's swimming was so energetic that the boy lost his balance again and again, and had a lesson in a man's helplessness in the water.

At last, and just when a feeling of dread was beginning to freeze his nerves, Gwyn, on lowering his legs, touched the rock, and giving an angry drag at the kerchiefs to check the dog, he regained his feet, and found the water little above his waist.

"It's all right," he panted. "Come on, Joe; the floor dips down there, and you're nearly in the deepest part, I think. I don't suppose you'll have to swim. I shouldn't if this wretch of a dog had not pulled me over."

Joe waded on very slowly and cautiously, finding his companion's words quite correct, and that, after just keeping his mouth above water, the level sank during the next few paces to his chin, then to his chest, and soon after to his waist, after which he easily reached his dripping companion.

"Nice mess, isn't it?" said Gwyn. "I wish old Sam Hardock was in it— pretending that the mine was pumped out. Will you be quiet, Grip? There, get on! It's all right if we're going in the proper direction;" and then, after wading on about a couple of hundred yards with the water still falling, Grip was able to walk, and uttering a joyous bark, he splashed along for a little way, and then stopped short, and gave himself a regular canine water-distributing shake which made him seem as if about to throw off his skin.

"Look at that," cried Gwyn now. "Only just wet above one's shoes."

Another fifty yards and they were upon the dry rocky floor, which they liberally bedewed with the water which trickled from their clothes as they were hurried on by the dog, who strained more than ever at his leash.

"It must be a good sign for him to tug like this," said Gwyn.

"Yes; he seems to know the way. It's of no use to try and stop him, for we know that we were all wrong, and perhaps he's right."

"Yes; look at him," said Gwyn; "there can't be a doubt about it. See how he tugs to get along."

"Yes; and now I think of it," said Joe, eagerly, "we haven't come through that hall-like place with the pillars all about."

"Haven't come to it yet, perhaps."

Joe shook his head, and gave his companion a meaning look.

"It isn't that," he said. "We've come quite a different way."

"Well, it doesn't matter," said Gwyn, so long as we get to the foot of the shaft; "and I shall be very glad, for, wet, tired, and hungry, it's very horrible being here."

They went on, led by the dog like two blind beggars Gwyn said, as he tried to look cheerfully upon their position, when he received another mental check, for Joe cried suddenly, "Stop a moment, for there's something wrong with this candle;" and a shudder worse than that which had attacked the boy when the water first rose to his breast ran through his nerves.

Joe opened the door of the lanthorn with a jerk, and the candle, which had fallen over on one side and was smoking the glass, dropped out on to the rocky floor; but Gwyn stooped quickly and saved it from becoming extinct, while the dog uttered an impatient bark and dragged at the leash again.

And it was always so as they proceeded, that the boys' strength, which had flickered up at the hope of rescue brought by the dog, rapidly burned down now like the candle, which quickly approached its end; while the dog seemed to be untiring and toiled and tugged away, as if trying to draw his master onward. They spoke less and less, and dragged their feet, and grew more helpless, till at the end of a couple of hours Joe suddenly said,—

"It's of no use, Ydoll; I can go no farther, and he's only taking us more into the mine. There isn't a bit of it we've passed before."

"Never mind; we must trust him now," said Gwyn, sadly; "we can't go back."

"No, but we oughtn't to have trusted him at all. We ought to have felt that we knew better than a dog."

"Stop! What are you going to do?" cried Gwyn, angrily.

"This," said Joe; and he let himself sink down on the rocky floor, and laid his head on his hand.

"No, no; get up! You sha'n't turn coward like this. Get up, I say!"

"I—can't," said Joe. "I'm dead beat. You go on, and if Grip takes you out try and find me again. If you can't, tell father I did my best."

"I won't; I sha'n't," cried Gwyn, furiously. "Think I'm going to leave you?"

"Yes. Save yourself."

"You get up," cried Gwyn; and stooping down, he caught one of his companion's arms, dragged at it with a heavy jerk, and found that he had miscalculated his strength, for he sank upon his knees, felt as if the lanthorn was gliding round him, and then subsided close by where Joe lay, while just then the dog gave a furious tug at the leash, freed itself, and dashed off into the darkness, barking apparently with delight.

"It's of no good, Joe; I'm as bad as you," said Gwyn, slowly; "I can't get up again."

"Never mind, Ydoll; we have done our duty, old chap, as the dads said we ought to as soldiers' sons. We have, haven't we?"

"No, not quite," cried Gwyn. "Let's have one more try—I will, and you shall."

He made an effort to rise, but sank back and nearly fainted, but recovered himself to feel that Joe had got hold of his hand, and he uttered a piteous sigh.

"Light's going out, Jolly, and if they don't find us soon our lights'll go out, too. I wouldn't care so much if it wasn't for the mater, because it will nearly kill her," he continued drearily. "She's ever so fond of me, though I've alway been doing things to upset her. Father won't mind so much, because he'll say I died like a man doing my duty."

"How will they know that?" mused Joe, whose eyes were half-closed. "Let's write it down on paper."

Gwyn was silent for a few moments as he lay thinking, but at last he spoke.

"No," he said; "that would be like what father calls blowing your own trumpet. He used to say to me that if he had gone about praising himself and telling people that he was a great soldier and had done all kinds of brave deeds, he would have been made a general before now; but he wouldn't. 'If they can't find out I've done my duty, and served my Queen as I should, let it be,' he said. And that's what we ought to do when we've fought well. If they don't find out that we've done what we should, it doesn't much matter; let it go. I'm tired out and faint, as you are, and—so's the candle, Joe. There, it has gone out."

Joe uttered a low, long, weary sigh, as, after dancing up and down two or three times, the light suddenly went out.

"Frightened?" said Gwyn, gently, as the black darkness closed them in.

"No, only sleepy," was the reply. "Good-night."

"Good-night," said Gwyn, softly; and the next minute they were sleeping calmly, with their breath coming and going gently, and the dripping of water from somewhere close at hand sounding like the beating of the pendulum of some great clock.

Once more the loud barking of a dog, long after the boys had lain down to rest, and Grip was dragging first at Gwyn, then at Joe, seizing their jackets in his teeth and tugging and shaking at them, but with no greater effect than to make Gwyn utter a weary sigh.

The dog barked again and tugged at him, but, finding his efforts of no avail, he stood with his paws resting on his master's breast, threw up his head, and uttered a dismal long-drawn howl which went echoing along the passages, and a faint shout was heard from far away.

The dog sprang from where he stood, ran a few yards, and stood barking furiously before running back to where Gwyn lay, when he seized and shook him again, and howled, ending by giving three or four licks at his face. Then he threw up his head once more, and sent forth another prolonged, dismal howl.

This was answered by a faintly-heard whistle, and the dog barked loudly over and over again, till a voice nearer now called his name.

All this was repeated till a gleam was seen on the wall, and now the dog grew frantic in his barking, running to and fro, and finally, as voices were faintly heard, and the gleaming of lights grew plainer, he crouched down with his head resting on Gwyn's breast, panting heavily as if tired out.

"Here, Grip! Grip! Grip! Where are you?" rang out in the Colonel's voice; and the dog answered with a single bark, repeated at intervals till the lights grew plainer, shadows appeared on the walls, there was the trampling of feet, and a voice said,—

"Hold up, sir; he must be close at hand. The dog keeps in one place, so he must have found them. Here, here, here!"

There was a long whistle, but the dog did not leave his place, only gave a sharp bark; and the next minute lights were being held over the Major and Colonel Pendarve, as they knelt beside their sons, trying all they knew to bring them back to their senses.

Their efforts were not without effect, for after a time Gwyn opened his eyes, stared blankly at the light, and said feebly,—

"Don't! Let me go to sleep."

Shortly after the two boys were being carefully carried in a semi-unconscious state by the willing hands of the search-party, through the bewildering mazes of the old mine, with Grip trotting on in front as if he were in command; and in this way the foot of the shaft was reached and they were safely taken to grass.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

GRIP'S ANTIPATHY.

"I really think you ought to stay in, Gwyn," said Mrs Pendarve, anxiously.

"Oh, I'll stay in if you like, mother," said the boy, patting the hand that was laid upon his arm, and looking affectionately in his mother's eyes; "but don't you think it would be all nonsense?"

"Yes," said the Colonel, firmly, as he looked up from the work he was reading. "He's quite well, my dear."

"No, no, my love; he's too pale to be well."

"Fancy, my dear; but perhaps he may be. Describe your symptoms, Gwyn, my boy."

"Haven't got any to describe, father," said Gwyn, merrily.

"Well, then, to satisfy your mother, how do you feel?"

"Ashamed of myself, father, for having had the doctor."

"Exactly. He's quite well, my dear. It was bad for him, of course; but a strong, healthy boy does not take long to recover from a long walk and some enforced abstinence—There, you can go, Gwyn, and—"

"Yes, father?" said the boy, for the Colonel paused.

"There's young Jollivet coming over the hill, so Major Jollivet and I would feel greatly obliged if you two lads did not get into another scrape for some time to come."

"Oh, I say," cried Gwyn, "I do call that too bad. Isn't it, mother? Father lets the Major take him down and get lost in the mine—"

"Nothing of the kind, sir. We found our way back—you did not."

"And then when we go down," continued Gwyn, without heeding his father's words, "to try and find them, father calls it getting into a scrape."

"Ah, well, never mind what I called it," said the Colonel, smiling; "but be careful, please. We don't want any more exploring."

Gwyn went off, met Joe, and they made for a favourite place on the cliff where they could look down on the sea and the sailing gulls to have a chat about their late adventure, this being their first meeting since they were carried home from the mine.

"You're all right, aren't you, Ydoll?" said Joe.

"Never felt better in my life, only I don't feel as if I could sit still here. Let's go to the mine."

"To go down? No, thank you—not to-day."

"Who wants to go down. I mean to have a talk to Sam and the men. I want to hear more about it. Oh, I say, though, it's too bad to have left old Grip chained up. Let's go and fetch him and, after we've been to the mine, give him a good run over the down and along the cliff."

"Yes," said Joe, quietly; and Gwyn led the way back toward the house by the cove.

"That dog ought to have a golden collar," said Gwyn. "No; I tell you what—he shall have one made of the first tin that is smelted."

"Too soft; it would bend," said Joe.

"Very well, then, we'll have some copper put with it to make it hard, and turn it to bronze."

"What's the good? Dogs don't want ornaments. He'd be a deal happier with his old leather strap."

"I don't care; he shall have one of bronze."

He told Grip this when he reached the yard, and the dog rushed toward them, standing on his hind-legs and straining against his collar at the full extent of his chain till he was unfastened, when he went half mad with excitement till they were out of the grounds and on their way toward the mine. Then as he trotted on before them straight for the buildings they heard the panting of the engine, and came in sight of the smoke.

For the pump was steadily at work again, clearing out the water which had begun to gather, consequent upon the enforced inaction.

Sam Hardock caught sight of them before they reached the mine, and came to meet them, smiling largely.

"How are you, gentlemen?—how are you?" he cried. "Not much the worse, then, from your trip underground?"

"Oh, no, Sam, we're right enough," said Gwyn; "but I say, I can't understand about our only being in the mine two days. It seemed to me like a week."

"Fortnight," said Joe, correcting him.

"Well, fortnight, then."

"Ay, it would," said Hardock, looking serious now. "I mind being shut up in one of the Truro mines by a fall; and we were only there about thirty hours, but it seemed to me just like thirty days."

"But hasn't there been a mistake? We must have been there more than forty-eight hours."

"No, my lad; that was the time, and quite long enough, too; but I'm afraid it would have been twice as long if it hadn't been for this dog. It was a fine idea to send him down to try and find you."

"A splendid idea! Who's was it?"

"Oh, never mind about that," said Hardock, stooping down to pat the dog in the most friendly way. "Someone said after we'd got back along of your father, Mr Gwyn, that the dog was more likely to find you than anyone; but just then the Colonel ordered a fresh search, and a party went down, and then another, and another, for there was no stopping; they hunted for you well. But at last him who proposed the dog said he was sure that was the way to go to work; and then at last the Colonel says, 'Well, Hardock,' he says, 'I believe you're right. Try the dog!'"

"Then it was you who proposed it," said Gwyn, catching the miner's arm.

"Me? Was it? Well, perhaps it was," said Hardock; "but lor' a mussy, I was all in such a flurry over the business I don't half recollect. Sort o' idee it was Harry Vores. Maybe it was."

"No, it wasn't," said Gwyn; "I'm sure it was you, Sam. Now, wasn't it?"

He caught the man's hand in his, and there was a dim look in his eyes which went straight to the miner's heart, and he said huskily—

"Well, s'pose it was, Master Gwyn, wouldn't you ha' been ready to jump at anything as a last sort o' chance, when there was two lads lost away down in a place like that? Why, I'd ha' done anything, let alone depending on a dog. It warn't as if I didn't want to go myself: I did go till I dropped and couldn't do no more, and begun to wish I'd never said a word about the gashly old mine."

"Well, don't go on like that," cried Gwyn, laughing, as he warmly shook the mine captain's hand, while Joe caught hold of the other and held on.

"Here, hi, don't you two go on like that," cried the man; "what's the good o' making such a fuss. It was the dog saved your lives, not me, my lads; and do leave off, please. You're making me feel like a fool."

"No, we're not; we're trying to make you feel that we're grateful for what you did, Sam," said Gwyn.

"Why, of course, I know that," said the man, with his voice sounding husky and strange; "but don't you see what you're doing, both of you?"

"Yes; shaking hands," said Joe.

"Nay; pumping my arms up and down till you've made the water come. Look here, if, if my eyes aren't quite wet. Ah!"

Hardock gave himself a shake, as if to get rid of his feeling of weakness, and then indulged in one of his broadest smiles.

"There," he said, "it's all over now; but my word, me and Harry Vores— ay, and every man-Jack of us—did feel bad. For, as I says to Harry, I says, it warn't as if it had been two rough chaps like us reg'lar mining lads. It was our trade; but for you two young gents, not yet growed up, to come to such an end was more than we could bear. But we did try, lot after lot of us. It warn't for want o' trying that we didn't find you. Wonderful place, though, aren't it?"

"Horrible!" said Joe.

"Oh, I don't know, sir; not horrible," said the man in a tone that was half-reproachful; "it's wonderful, I call it, and ten times as big as I expected."

"So big and dangerous that it will be no good," said Joe.

"What!" cried Hardock, laughing. "Did you look about you when you were down there?"

"As much as we could for the darkness."

"And so did I, sir," said the man, with a chuckle. "Of course, most when I was wandering about with your fathers. No good because it's so big? Wait a bit, and you'll see. Why, I shall begin to make a regular map plan of that place below. It will take months and months perhaps, but we shall explore a bit at a time, and mark the roads and drifts with arrows, and we shall all get more and more used to it."

"One could hardly get used to such a place as a tin mine, Sam," said Gwyn.

"Oh, yes, we could, sir, and we shall. But I see you didn't make the use of your eyes that I did, or you'd have more to say."

"What do you mean?" cried Gwyn.

"Didn't you see how rough all the mining had been?"

"Well, yes."

"And don't you see what that means?"

"No."

"Then I'll tell you, both of you—there's ore there enough to make your fathers the richest gentlemen in these parts; and there isn't a company in Cornwall as wouldn't do anything to get it. New-fashioned machinery will do what the old miners couldn't manage, and we won't have any more losing our way. There, I'm busy; so good-bye, and good luck to you both. Some day, when you grow to be men, you'll thank me for what I've done, for I've about made you both."

"That means we're both going to be very rich some day," said Gwyn; "but it doesn't matter. Come on, and let's give old Grip a jolly good run. Come on, old dog."

Grip did not come, but led off; and they made for the edge of the cliff, which ran along, on an average, three hundred feet above where the waves beat at their feet, but they had not gone far before Joe, who had glanced back, said quickly,—

"What's Tom Dinass following us for out here?"

Gwyn glanced back, too.

"Not following us," he said quickly; "he's making for the bend of the rock yonder."

"Yes," said Joe; "but that's where he knows we shall have to pass. What does he mean? He must have seen us at the mine and followed."

"I don't know," said Gwyn, thoughtfully; and a peculiar feeling of uneasiness attacked him. "But never mind; let's go on, or he'll think we're afraid of him."

"I am," said Joe, frankly.

"Well, then, if you are, you mustn't show it. Come on. Quiet, Grip."

For though the man was several hundred yards away, Grip had caught sight of him, set up all the thick hair about his neck, and uttered a low, deep growl.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

GWYN'S ERROR.

All at once, as the boys went along near the cliff edge, they found that Dinass had disappeared, and Joe expressed himself as being relieved.

"Went back beyond that ridge of rocks, I suppose," said Gwyn; "but I certainly thought he wanted to cut us off for some reason. Well, it's a good job he has gone."

But a little later they found that Dinass had not gone, for all the while Grip had had an eye on his movements and had acted after the manner of a dog.

For, after about five minutes, there was a sharp barking heard as the boys trudged on.

"Why, where's Grip?" said Gwyn. "I thought he was here."

The barking was repeated, and the dog was seen close to the edge of the cliff a hundred yards away, barking at something below him.

"What's he found?" said Joe.

"Oh, it's only at the gulls lower down. There's that shelf where it looks as if the granite had slipped down a little way. Let's see what he is about."

The dog kept up his barking, and the boys walked up, to find no gull below, but Tom Dinass seated in a nook smoking his pipe, with a couple of ominous-looking pieces of stone within reach of his hand, both evidently intended for Grip's special benefit should he attack, which he refrained from doing.

"Mornin', gentlemen," said the man. "Wish you'd keep that dawg chained up when you come to the mine; you see he don't like me."

"He won't hurt you if you don't tease him," said Gwyn. "Come to heel, Grip."

The dog uttered a remonstrant growl, but obeyed, and Dinass drew himself back against the cliff.

"Safer down here," he said.

"Yes, you are safer there," said Gwyn. "Good-morning."

"One minute, sir, please. Don't go away yet; I want just a word with you."

"Yes, what is it?" said Gwyn, shortly, while Joe gazed from the man to the depths below, troubled the while by some confused notion that he meant mischief.

"Only just a word or two, Mr Gwyn, sir," said the man in a humble manner, which accorded badly with his fierce, truculent appearance; and for the moment the lad addressed thought that he meant treachery, and he, Joe, could not help glancing at the precipice so close at hand. "You see, I'm an unlucky sort of fellow, and somehow make people think wrong things about me. You and me got wrong first time you see me; but I didn't mean no harm, and things got better till the other day over the bit o' fuss about going down."

"When you behaved like a cur and left us to take our chance. Quiet, Grip?"

"Look at that now!" cried Dinass, appealing to nobody—"even him turning again' me. Why, I ought to say as you two young gents went and forsook me down the old pit. Sure as goodness, I thought you both did it as a lark. Why, it warn't in me to do such a thing; and if you'd only waited a few minutes till I'd got my candle right, I'd perhaps ha' been able to save you from being lost. Anyhow I would ha' tried."

"Do you expect us to believe that you did not sneak back and leave us?" said Gwyn.

"Well, as young gents, I do hope you will, sir. Why, I'd sooner have cut my head off than do such a thing. Forsake yer! Why I was half mad when I found you'd gone on, and I run and shouted here and there till I was hoarse as a crow; and when I found I was reg'lar lost there, I can't tell you what I felt. That's a true word, sir; I never was so scared in my life."

"Ah, well, perhaps we'd better say no more about it, Dinass."

"Tom Dinass, sir. Don't speak as if you was out with me, too."

"We both thought you had left us in the lurch; but if you say you did not, why, we are, bound to believe you."

"Bah!" said Grip, in a growl full of disgust.

"Quiet, sir!"

"Ay, even that dawg don't take to me," said Dinass, in an ill-used tone. "But there, I don't care now you young gents believe me."

"All right; good-morning," said Gwyn, shortly. "Come along, Joe."

"Nay, nay, don't go away like that, Mr Gwyn, you'll think better of me soon, when you aren't so sore about it. For I put it to you, sir, as a gentleman as knows what the mine is, and to you, too, Master Joe Jollivet, you both know—Aren't it a place where a man can lose himself quickly?"

"Well, yes, of course," said Gwyn.

"Exactly; well, I lost myself same as you did; and because I warn't with you, everybody's again me—Sam Hardock and Harry Vores, and all the men, even the engine tenter; and that aren't the worst of it."

"What is, then?" said Joe.

"Why this, sir," said the man, earnestly: "They've made a bad report of me to the guv'nors just when I was getting on and settling down to a good job in what seems like to be a rich mine with regular work, and I'm under notice to leave."

"Serve you right for being such a sneak," said Joe, angrily.

"Oh, Master Joe, you are hard on a man; but you'll try and believe me, sir. I did work hard to find you both."

"I daresay we're wrong, Joe," said Gwyn; and the dog uttered another growl which sounded wonderfully like the word "Bah!"

"Yes, sir, wrong you are; and seeing how scarce work is, and so many mines not going, you won't mind putting a word in for me to the Colonel and the Major."

"What for? What about?" said Gwyn, sharply. "Your character?"

"Nay, sir, I don't want no character. Sam Hardock says the mine's rich, and I want to stay on. You say the right word to the Colonel, and he'll keep me on."

"I don't feel as if I could, Dinass," said Gwyn, thoughtfully.

"Not just this minute, sir," said the man, humbly; "but if you think about it, and how hard it is for a man to lose his bread for a thing like that, you'll feel different about it. Do try, sir, please. I'm a useful man, and you'll want me; and I'll never forget it if you do."

"Well," said Gwyn, "I'll think about it; but if I do ask my father, he may not listen to me."

"Oh, yes, he will, sir; he'd do anything you asked him; and so would yours, Master Joe. Do, please, gentlemen, and very thankful I'll be."

"Come along, Joe," said Gwyn.

"And you will speak a word for me, sir—both of you?"

"I'll see," said Joe; and with Grip trotting softly behind them, the two lads hurried off.

"You won't ask for him to stay, Ydoll?" said Joe, earnestly, as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Why not? Perhaps we're misjudging him after all."

"But I never liked him," said Joe.

"Well I didn't, and I don't; but that's no reason why we should be unfair. He isn't a pleasant fellow, and nobody seems to take to him; I believe he is right about all the men being set against him."

"Well, then, it's right for him to go."

"Oh, I say, Jolly, don't be hard and unfair on a fellow. One ought to stick up for the weaker side. Let's go and see if father's in the office."

"And you are going to speak for him?"

"Yes; and so are you;" and Gwyn led the way to the new mine buildings where the carpenters and masons were still busy, passing the shaft where the pump was steadily at work, but going very slowly, for there was very little water to keep down.

As the boys approached the doorway they saw Hardock come out and go on to the mine, while on entering they found the Colonel and the Major examining a rough statement drawn up by the captain who had just left.

"Well, boys," said Major Jollivet, "have you come in to hear about it?"

"No," said Gwyn, staring; "about what, sir?"

"The venture, my boy. Hardock reports that the mine is very rich in ore, and that we have entered upon a very good speculation."

"Yes, that is so, Gwyn," said his father; "and we are going to begin work in real earnest now—I mean, begin raising ore; and we must engage more men. Well; you were going to say something."

"Yes, father," said Gwyn, rushing into his subject at once. "We have just seen Dinass."

"Yes," said the Colonel, frowning; "he goes in about ten days, and we want someone in his place. What about him?"

"He has been telling us about his trouble—that he is dismissed."

"He need not worry you about it, boy. He should have behaved better."

"Yes; rank cowardice," said Joe's father, shortly.

"No, Major; he has been explaining how it was to us, and he tells me it was all accidental. He says we left him behind, and that he searched for us for long enough afterwards, till he was quite lost. It is an awkward place to miss your way in."

"Yes, you boys ought to know that," said the colonel. "Then this man has been getting hold of you to petition to stay?"

"Yes, father; he asked us to speak for him."

"Well, and are you going to?" said the Major.

"Yes, sir; I should like you and my father to give him another trial."

"But you don't like the man, Gwyn," said the Colonel.

"No, father—not at all; but I don't like to be prejudiced."

"And you, Joe," said the Major, "don't you want to be prejudiced?"

"No, father; Ydoll here has put it so that I'm ready to back him up. Dinass says he wants to get on, and doesn't like the idea of leaving a good rich mine."

"Humph!" said the Colonel. "We don't want to dismiss men—we want to engage them. What do you say, Jollivet; shall we give him another trial?"

"I think so," said the Major. "He's a big, strong, well set up fellow. Pity to drum a man out of the regiment who may be useful."

"Yes," said the Colonel, sharply. "Well, Gwyn, perhaps we have been too hard on him. He is not popular with the other men, but he may turn out all right, and we can't afford to dismiss a willing worker; so you may tell him that, at the interposition of you two boys, we will cancel the dismissal, and he can stay on."

"And tell him, boys," said the Major, "that he is to do your recommendation credit."

"Yes, of course," came in duet, and the boys hurried out to look for Dinass and tell him their news.

"Thank ye, my lads," he said, smiling grimly. "I'll stay, and won't forget it."

That night Dinass wrote a letter to somebody he knew—an ill-spelt letter in a clumsy, schoolboyish hand; but it contained the information that the old mine was rich beyond belief, and that he was beginning to see his way.

Gwyn did not know it then, but he had committed one of the great errors of his life.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

SAM HARDOCK BRINGS NEWS.

Time went on, and at the end of a year Ydoll Mine was in working order, with a good staff, the best of machinery for raising the ore, a man-engine for the work-people's ascent and descent, a battery of stamps to keep up an incessant rattle as the heavily-laden piles crushed the pieces of quartz, and in addition a solid-looking building with its furnaces for smelting the tin.

They were busy days there, and Gwyn and his companion found little time for their old pursuits—egging, rabbiting and fishing—save occasionally when, by way of a change, they would spend an evening on the rocky point which formed one of the protecting arms of Ydoll Cove, trying with pike rods, large winches and plenty of line, for the bass which played in silvery shoals in the swift race formed at the point by the meeting of two currents, and often having a little exciting sport in landing the swift-swimming, perch-finned fish.

For the fishing was too good off that part of the Cornish coast to be neglected, and the Colonel made allusions to the old proverb about all work and no play making Jack a dull boy.

One afternoon Gwyn loosened Grip for a run, to the dog's great delight, and, after seeking out Joe, who had been at home for days attending on his father, who was troubled with one of his old fits—Joe called them fits of the Jungle demon—the boys went down to the mine, Grip trotting behind them, save when some rustle to right or left attracted him for a frantic hunt to discover the cause.

At the mine Tom Dinass was found, looking very sour and grim, for he was still not the best of friends with his fellow-workmen; but as he was one of the most steady in his devotion to his work he stood well with the owners.

Gwyn caught sight of him first, and Dinass saw him at the same moment, but, instead of coming forward, he pretended to have something to do elsewhere, and went off into the smelting-house.

"What has he gone off like that for?" said Gwyn; and the boys followed just in time to hear some blows being struck in the gloomy place where a fierce fire was roaring and sending thin pencils of light through cracks in the furnace door.

The next minute some pieces of hard burned clay crumbled beneath the blows, and there was a dazzling stream of molten metal poured out, to run along channels made in the floor to form flat, squarish ingots of tin, and display the colours of the rainbow, intensified to a brilliancy that was almost more than the eye could bear.

"Please father when he hears of the casting," said Joe. "So much money has been laid out that he likes to hear of anything that will bring a return."

"Well, there's plenty of return coming in now," said Gwyn. "We've got one of the richest mines in Cornwall. Here, Tom Dinass! What's he mean by sneaking away? Here, Tom Dinass!"

"Want me, sir?" said the man, looking from one to the other suspiciously as he came up, his face shining in the wonderful glow shed by the molten tin.

"Yes, of course. Didn't you see us coming to you before?"

"Me, sir? No, I didn't know as you wanted me," and he seemed to draw himself up for defence.

"Well, we do," said Gwyn. "We want to have out the seine to-night; the tide will fit, and there have been mullet about."

"Oh, that's it, sir," said the man, who seemed much relieved. "Here, keep off with you," he growled, "my legs aren't roast meat."

"Come here, Grip!" cried Gwyn. "To heel, sir! I wish you two would be better friends."

"'Taren't my fault, sir; it's Grip. He's always nasty again' me."

"Well, never mind the dog. What time will you be off duty to-night?"

"Five, sir."

"That will do. See that the net is ready. I'll speak to the others. We'll be down there at five—no, half-past, because of tea."

"I'll be there, sir," said Dinass; and the boys went off, with the man watching them till the door swung close after them. "Nay, my legs aren't roast meat, but," he continued, as he glanced towards the molten metal still glowing, "it would soon be roast dog if I had my chance."

Meanwhile the boys went on to continue their preparations, and then hurried home for their meal; then for the first time Gwyn thought of Grip, and whistled to him to come and be tied up, but the dog did not come.

"Smelt a rabbit somewhere," said Gwyn, and thought no more about the dog.

In due time Dinass appeared down by the sandy cove, and after the long seine had been carefully laid in the stern of the boat, and the end lines left in charge of a couple of miners on one of the points, the boat was rowed straight out, with Gwyn paying out the net with its lead line and cork line running over a roller in the stern. Then at a certain distance the boat was steered so as to turn round to the right, and rowed in a curve, with the net still being paid out, till the rocks on the other side by the race were reached, and the sandy cove shut in by a wall of net, kept stretched by the leads at the bottom and the line of corks at the top.

At this point the boys landed with their trousers tucked up to the highest extent, jackets off, and arms bare as their legs, to start inland dragging the lines, the men on the other point starting at the same time, and bringing the dot-like row of corks to a rounder curve as the strain on the ropes grew heavier.

Tom Dinass now started for the point at the head of the cove to run the boat well ashore, and then go to the help of the boys as they toiled steadily on, stepping cautiously over the rocks, which were slippery with reddish-yellow fucus, till the broken part gave place to the heavy, well-rounded boulders which rattled and rumbled over one another in times of storms. Then the boulders gave place to shingle, which was rather better for the fishers, and lastly to the fine level sand over which the seine was to be dragged.

But this took some time and no little labour, for it was slow, hard work, full of the excitement of speculation; for the net, after enclosing so wide an area, might come in full of fish, or with nothing but long heavy strands of floating weed torn by the waves from the rocks perhaps miles away.

Experience and hints given by the blue-shirted bronzed fishers of the cove had taught the boys when was the best time for shooting the seine, however, so they generally were pretty successful; and as the net was drawn inland the bobbing of the line of corks and sundry flashes told that fish of some kind had been enclosed, when the excitement began.

It was a bright scene that summer's evening, when the sea was empurpled by the reflections of the gorgeous western sky, the smoke from the smelting-house looking like a golden feather.

But neither Gwyn nor Joe had eyes for the beauties of Nature which surrounded the nook where their fathers had made their home, for the excitement of the seine drawing was gaining in intensity.

Dinass, after running up the boat by the help of a couple of the men who had strolled down to see, was hurrying to pass the boys and wade out with an oar over his shoulder behind the line of corks, ready to splash and beat the water should there, by any chance, be a shoal of mullet within—no unlikely event, for these fish swam up with the tide to feed upon the scraps and odds and ends which came from the village down the little streamlet. And often enough their habit was, when enclosed, to play follow-my-leader, and leap the cork line and get out again to sea.

It was well that the precaution was taken, for upon this occasion a little shoal had been drawn in, to swim about peaceably enough for a time; but when the water shallowed, and their leader found that the wall of net was in its way, a frantic rush was made, and Dinass brought down his oar with a tremendous splash, making them dart in another direction; but there the top and bottom of the net were drawing together, forming a bag into which the shoal passed, and their effort to shoot out of the water was frustrated.

Again they appeared at the surface, but the splashing of the oar checked them; and this happened over and over, till their chance was gone, and, mingled with the other fish enclosed, they swam wildly about, seeking now for a hole or a way beneath the line of leads.

The fish sought in vain; and as the ends of the net were drawn in more and more, Dinass waded behind about the centre of the great bag, taking hold of the cork line and helping it along till the sandy beach was neared, and relieving some of the strain, till slowly and steadily the seine was drawn right up with its load, after cleanly sweeping up everything which had been enclosed, this being a great deal more than was wanted.

For the contents of the net were curious; and as the cork line was drawn back flat on the sands, there was plenty of work for the men to pick off the net the masses of tangled fucus and bladder-wrack which had come up with the tide. Jelly-fish—great transparent discs with their strangely-coloured tentacles—were there by the dozen; pieces of floating wood, scraps of rope and canvas, and a couple of the curious squids with their suckers and staring eyes.

All these were thrown off rapidly upon the sands right and left, and then the baskets were brought into play for the gathering of the spoil, while, scurrying away over net and sand, and making rapidly for the water, dozens of small crabs kept escaping from among the flapping fish, strangely grotesque in their actions, as they ran along sidewise, flourishing their pincers threateningly aloft.

In its small way it proved to be a fortunate haul, including as it did the whole of the little shoal of grey mullet, some three dozen, in their silvery scale armour, and running some three or four pounds weight each. Then there was nearly a score of the vermilion-and-orange-dyed red mullet, brilliant little fellows; a few small-sized mackerel; a few gurnard, a basketful of little flat fish, and a number of small fry, which had to be dealt with gingerly, for among them were several of the poisonous little weevels, whose sharp back fins and spines make dangerous wounds.

At last all were gathered up; and after giving orders for the seine to be carefully shaken clear and spread out to dry upon the downs, the two lads proceeded to select a sufficiency of the red and grey mullet for home use, and a brace for Sam Hardock, and then made a distribution of the rest, the men from the mine having gathered to look on and receive. Gwyn and Joe took a handle each of their rough basket, and began to trudge up the cliff path, stopping about half-way to look down at the people below.

"I say, how Tom Dinass enjoys a job of this kind," said Gwyn, as he turned over their captives in the basket, and noted how rapidly their lovely colours began to fade.

"Yes, better than mining," said Joe, thoughtfully. "I say, why is he so precious fond of hunting about among the rocks at low-water?"

"I don't know. Is he?"

"Yes. I've watched him from my window several times. I can just look over that rocky stretch that's laid bare by the tide."

"Why, you can't see much from there," said Gwyn.

"Yes I can. I've got father's field-glass up, and I can see him quite plain. I saw him yesterday morning just at daylight. I'd been in father's room to give him his medicine, for his fever has been threatening to come back."

"Trying to find a lobster or a crab or two."

"People don't go lobstering with a hammer."

"Expected to find a conger, then, and wanted the hammer to knock it down."

Joe laughed.

"You've got to hit a conger before you can knock it down. Not easy with a hammer."

"Well, what was he doing?"

"Oh, I don't know, unless he was chipping the stones to try whether a vein of tin runs up there."

"Well, it may," said Gwyn, thoughtfully. "Why shouldn't it?"

"I don't know why it shouldn't, but it isn't likely."

"Why not, when the mine runs right under there."

"What? Nonsense!"

"It does. I was down that part with Sam Hardock one day when the wind was blowing hard, and Sam could hear the waves beat and the big boulders rumble tumbling after as they fell back."

"How horrid!" said Joe, looking at his companion with his face drawn in accord with his words. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Forgot all about it afterwards; never remembered it once till you began to talk like this."

"But how strange!" said Joe.

"Oh, I don't see why it should be strange. The old folks found a rich vein, and when they did they followed it up wherever it went; and that's, of course, why it's such a rambling old place. But that's what old Dinass is after. He thinks that if he can find a new vein, he'll get a reward."

"What a game if he finds one running out through the rocks!"

"I don't see how it's going to be a game."

"Don't you? Why, to find that he has discovered what already belongs to us; for of course the foreshore's ours, and even if it wasn't he couldn't go digging down there for ore."

"Why?"

"Because, for one thing, the waves wouldn't let him; and for another, we shouldn't allow him to dig a hole down into our mine. There, come on, and let's take them some fish; and I want to get on my dry clothes. What are you thinking about?"

"Eh?"

"I said what are you thinking about?"

"Tom Dinass."

"Not a very pleasant subject either. I get to like him less and less, and it's my opinion that if he gets half a chance he'll be doing something."

"Hallo!"

"Oh, here you are, Master Gwyn."

"Yes; what's the matter, Sam?"

"You'll know quite soon enough, sir. Come on up to the mine. Harry Vores has just gone back there. It was him brought me the news."



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

GRIP'S BAD LUCK.

"Why don't you speak?" cried Gwyn, angrily. "Has there been an accident? Surely father hasn't gone down!"

"Oh, the Colonel's all right, sir," said Hardock, genially. "The gov'nor hasn't gone and lost himself."

"But there has been an accident, Sam," cried Joe.

"Nor the Major aren't gone down neither, sir," said the man. "Here, let me carry that fish basket. Didn't remember me with a couple o' mullet, did you?"

"Yes, two of those are for you, Sam; but do speak out? What is wrong?"

"Something as you won't like, sir. Your dog Grip's gone down the mine."

"What for? Thinks we're there? Well, that's nothing; he'll soon find his way up. Why did they let him go down?"

"Couldn't help it, sir," said the man, slowly.

"What—he would go? I did miss him, Joe, when I went home. I remember now, we didn't see him after we went to the mine. He must have missed us, and then thought we had gone down."

"Sets one thinking of being lost and his coming after us," said Joe, slowly. "Well, he can't lose his way."

"But how do you know he went down, Sam?" asked Gwyn, as they approached the mine.

"Harry Vores heerd him."

"What, barking?"

"'Owlin'."

"Oh, at the bottom of the shaft. Dull because no one was down. Then why did you suggest that there was an accident? You gave me quite a turn."

"'Cause there was an accident, sir," said Hardock, quietly; and he led the way into the great shed over the pit mouth, where all was very still.

Gwyn saw at a glance that something serious had happened to the dog, which was lying on a roughly-made bed composed of a miner's flannel coat placed on the floor, beside which Harry Vores was kneeling; and as soon as the dog heard steps he raised his head, turned his eyes pitifully upon his master, and uttered a doleful howl.

"Why, Grip, old chap, what have you been doing?" cried Gwyn, excitedly.

"Don't torment him, sir," said Vores; "he's badly hurt."

"Where? Oh, Grip! Grip!" cried Gwyn, as he laid his hand on the dog's head, while the poor beast whined dolefully, and made an effort to lick the hand that caressed him, as he gazed up at his master as if asking for sympathy and help.

"Both his fore-legs are broken, sir, and I'm afraid he's got nipped across the loins as well."

"Nay, nay, nay, Harry," growled Hardock; "not him. If he had been he wouldn't have yowled till you heerd him."

"Nipped?" said Gwyn. "Then it wasn't a fall?"

"Nay, sir; Harry Vores and me thinks he must ha' missed you, and thought you'd gone down the mine, and waited his chance and jumped on to the up-and-down to go down himself."

"Oh, but the dog wouldn't have had sense enough to do that."

"I dunno, sir. Grip's got a wonderful lot o' sense of his own! 'Member how he found you two young gents in the mine! Well, he's seen how the men step on and off the up-and-down, and he'd know how to do it. He must, you know."

"But some of the men would know," said Gwyn.

"Dessay they do, sir, but they're all off work now, and we don't know who did. Well, he must have had a hunt for you, and not smelling you, come back to the foot o' the shaft, and began to mount last thing, till he were close to the top, and then made a slip and got nipped. That's how we think it was—eh, Harry?"

"Yes, sir; that's all I can make of it," said Vores. "I was coming by here when the men were all up, and the engine was stopped, and I heard a yowling, and last of all made out that it was down the shaft here; and I fetched Master Hardock and we got the engine started, and I went and found the poor dog four steps down, just ready to lick my hand, but he couldn't wag his tail, and that's what makes me think he's nipped."

But just then Grip moved his tail feebly, a mere ghost of a wag.

"There!" cried Hardock, triumphantly; "see that? Why, if he'd been caught across the lines he'd have never wagged his tail again."

"Poor old Grip," said Gwyn, tenderly; "that must have been it. He tried too much. Caught while coming up. Here, let's look at your paw."

The boy tenderly took hold of the dog's right paw, and he whined with pain, but made no resistance, only looked appealingly at his masters to let them examine the left leg.

"Oh, there's no doubt about it, Joe; both legs have been crushed."

Joe drew a low, hissing breath through his teeth.

"It's 'most a wonder as both legs warn't chopped right off," said Vores. "Better for him, pore chap, if they had been."

"Hadn't we better put him out of his misery, sir?" said Hardock.

"Out of his misery!" cried Gwyn, indignantly. "I should like to put you out of your misery."

"Nay, you don't mean that, sir," said the captain, with a chuckle.

"Kill my dog!" cried Gwyn.

"You'll take his legs right off, won't you, sir, with a sharp knife?" said Vores.

"No, I won't," cried Gwyn, fiercely.

"Better for him, sir," said Vores. "They'd heal up then."

"But you can't give a dog a pair of wooden legs, matey," said Hardock, solemnly. "If you cuts off his front legs, you'd have to cut off his hind-legs to match. Well, he'd only be like one o' them turnspitty dogs then; and it always seems to me a turnspitty to let such cripply things live."

"We must take him home, Joe," said Gwyn, who did not seem to heed the words uttered by the men.

"Yes," said Joe. "Poor old chap!" and he bent down to softly stroke the dog's head.

"Better do it here, Master Gwyn," said Hardock. "We'll take him into the engine-house to the wood block. I know where the chopper's kept."

"What!" cried Gwyn, in horror. "Oh, you wretch!"

"Nay, sir, not me. It's the kindest thing you can do to him. You needn't come. Harry Vores'll hold him to the block, and I'll take off all four legs clean at one stroke and make a neat job of it, so as the wounds can heal."

Gwyn leaped to his feet, seized the basket from where it had been placed upon the floor, tilted it upside down, so that the fish flew out over to one side of the shed, and turned sharply to Joe,—"Catch hold!" he said, as he let the great basket down; and setting the example, he took hold of one end of the flannel couch on which poor Grip lay. Joe took the other, and together they lifted the dog carefully into the basket, where he subsided without a whine, his eyes seeming to say,—

"Master knows best."

"I'll carry him to the house, Mr Gwyn, sir," said Vores.

"No, thank you," said the boy, shortly; "we can manage."

"Didn't mean to offend you, sir," said the man, apologetically. "Wanted to do what was best."

"Ay, sir, that we did," said Hardock. "I'm afeard if you get binding up his legs, they'll go all mortificatory and drop off; and a clear cut's better than that, for if his legs mortify like, he'll die. If they're ampitated, he'll bleed a bit, but he'll soon get well."

"Thank you both," said Gwyn, quietly. "I know you did not mean harm, but we can manage to get him right, I think. Come along, Joe."

They lifted the basket, one at each end, swinging the dog between them, and started off, Grip whining softly, but not attempting to move.

"Shall we bring on the fish, sir?" shouted Hardock.

"Bother the fish!" cried Gwyn. "No; take it yourselves."



CHAPTER FORTY.

A BIT OF SURGERY.

"Oh, Gwyn, my dear boy," cried Mrs Pendarve, who was picking flowers for the supper-table as the boys came up to the gate, "what is the matter?"

"Grip's legs broken," said the boy, abruptly. "Where's father?"

"In the vinery, my dear. What are you going to do? Let me see if—"

"No, no, mother, we'll manage," said Gwyn; "come along, Joe."

They hurried down the garden, and up to where the sloping glass structure stood against the wall, from out of which came the sound of the Colonel's manly voice, as he trolled out a warlike ditty in French, with a chorus of "Marchons! Marchons!" and at every word grapeshot fell to the ground, for the Colonel, in spite of the suggestions of war, was peacefully engaged, being seated on the top of a pair of steps thinning out the grapes which hung from the roof.

"Here, father, quick!" cried Gwyn, as they entered the vinery.

"Eh? Hullo! What's the matter?"

"Grip's been on the man-engine and got his fore-legs crushed."

"Dear me! Poor old dog!" said the Colonel, descending from the ladder and sticking his long scissors like a dagger through the bottom button-hole of his coat. "Then we must play the part of surgeon, my boy. Not the first time, Joe. Clap the lid on the tank."

The wooden cover was placed upon the galvanised-iron soft-water tank, and poor Grip, who looked wistfully up in the Colonel's eyes, was lifted out and laid carefully upon the top, while the Colonel took off his coat and turned up his sleeves in the most business-like manner.

"I remember out at Bongay Wandoon, boys, after a sharp fight with a lot of fanatical Ghazis, who came up as I was alone with my company, we had ten poor fellows cut and hacked about and no surgeon within a couple of hundred miles, which meant up there in the mountains at least a week before we could get help. It was all so unexpected, no fighting being supposed to be possible, that I was regularly taken by surprise when the wretches had been driven off, and I found myself there with the ten poor fellows on my hands. I was only a young captain then, and I felt regularly knocked over; but, fortunately, I'd a good sergeant, and we went over to my lieutenant, who had been one of the first to go down. But he wouldn't have a cut touched till the men had been seen to. I'm afraid my surgery was a very bungling affair, but the sergeant and I did our best, and we didn't lose a patient. Our surgeon made sad fun of it all when he saw what we had done, and he snarled and found fault, and abused me to his heart's content; but some time after he came and begged my pardon, and shook hands, and asked me to let him show me all he could in case I should ever be in such a fix again. Consequently, I often used to go and help him when we had men cut down. I liked learning, and it pleased the men, too, and taught me skill. Poor old dog, then; no snapping. The poor fellow's legs are regularly crushed, as if he had been hit with an iron bar used like a scythe."

"Crushed in the man-engine, father," said Gwyn.

"Ah, yes, that must have done it. Well, Gwyn, my boy, a doctor would say here in a case like this—'amputation. I can't save the limbs.'"

"Oh, father, it is so horrible!"

"Yes, my boy, but you want to save the poor fellow's life."

"Can't anything be done, sir?" said Joe.

"Humph! Well, we might try," said the Colonel, as he tenderly manipulated the dog's legs, the animal only whining softly, and seeming to understand that he was being properly treated. "Yes, we will try. Here, Joe Jollivet, go and ask Mrs Pendarve to give you about half-a-dozen yards of linen for a bandage, and bring back a big needle and thick thread."

"Yes, sir," and Joe hurried out; but soon poked his head in again. "Don't get it all done, sir, till I've come back. I want to see."

"Can't till you come, boy. Off with you. Now, Gwyn, fill the watering-pot. I'll lift the lid of the tank."

The pot was filled and the dog placed back again.

"Now fetch that bag of plaster-of-Paris from the tool-house," said the Colonel.

This was soon done, and a portion of the white cement poured out into a flower-pot.

"Is that good healing stuff, father?" asked Gwyn.

"No, but it will help. Wait a bit, and you'll see," said the Colonel; and he once more softly felt the dog's crushed and splintered legs, shaking his head gravely the while.

"Don't you think you can save his legs, father?" asked Gwyn.

"I'm very much in doubt, my boy," said the Colonel, knitting his brows; but dogs have so much healthy life in them, and heal up so rapidly, that we'll try. Now, then, how long is that boy going to be with those bandages? Oh, here he is.

Gwyn opened the door, and Joe hurried in.

"Hah! that will do," said the Colonel; and cutting off two pieces a yard long, he thrust them into the watering-pot, soaked them, wrung them out, and then rolled both in the flower-pot amongst the plaster-of-Paris.

Then washing his hands, he took one of the injured legs, laid the broken bones in as good order as he could; and as Gwyn held the bandage ready, the leg was placed in it and bound round and round and drawn tight, the dog not so much as uttering a whimper, while after a few turns, the limp lump seemed to grow firmer. Then the bandaging was continued till all the wet linen was used, when the Colonel well covered the moist material with dry plaster, which was rapidly absorbed; and taking a piece of the dry bandage, thoroughly bound up the limb, threaded the big needle, and sewed the end of the linen firmly, and then the dog was turned right over for the other leg to be attacked.

"Well, he is a good, patient beast," said Gwyn, proudly. "But you don't think he's dying, do you, father?" he added anxiously.

"Speak to him, and try," said the Colonel.

Gwyn spoke, and the dog responded by tapping the cistern lid with his tail very softly, and then whined piteously, for the Colonel in placing the splintered bones as straight as he could was inflicting a great deal of pain.

"Can't help it, Canis, my friend," said the Colonel. "If you are to get better I want it to be with straight legs, and not to have you a miserable odd-legged cripple. There, I shall soon be done. That bandage is too dry, Gwyn; moisten it again. Wring it out. That's right; now dip it in the plaster."

"What's that for, sir?" said Joe, who was looking on eagerly.

"What do you think?" replied the Colonel. "Now, Gwyn, right under, and hold it like a hammock while I lay the leg in. I'm obliged to hold it firmly to keep the bones in their places. Now, right over and tighten it. That's it. Round again. Now go on. Round and round. Well done. Now I'll finish. Well," he continued, as he took the ends of the bandage and braced the dog's leg firmly, "why do I use this nasty white plaster, Joe?"

"Because it will set hard and stiff round the broken leg."

"Good boy," said the Colonel, smiling, "take him up; Gwyn didn't see that."

"Yes I did, father; but I didn't like to bother you and speak."

"Then stop where you are, boy. Keep down, Joe; he behaved the better of the two. You are both right; the plaster and the linen will mould themselves as they dry to the shape of the dog's legs, and if we can keep him from trying to walk and breaking the moulds, Nature may do the rest. At all events, we will try. When the linen is firm, I'll bind splints of wood to them as well, so as to strengthen the plaster, though it is naturally very firm."