“Don’t say anything about it,” said Harry, desisting, excited, from his examination; “and we’ll just have a try to dig it out some day. Wonder if it could tell us anything about the earthquake?”
He was staring at me, and I at him.
“Harry,” I whispered, thrilling all through; “supposing there’s a way down after all!”
“Don’t you—believe it, sir,” said Rampick’s breathless voice.
The man had, after his customary fashion, come softly upon us from some hidden coign of espial. His hands were slouched in his pockets, and he mumbled a little black clay pipe, shaped like a death’s head, between his teeth.
“I wouldn’t think—if I were you,” he went on, “fur to pry into the Lord’s secrets. Let the grave keep its own—pervided I may be so bold.”
“I wish you wouldn’t pry into our secrets, Mr. Rampick,” said Harry, loftily. “It’s got to be rather a nuisance this, you know.”
The ex-smuggler snatched his pipe from his lips, and seemed for an instant as if he were about to dash it to the ground in a fury. But he recovered himself, and pretended only to be shaking out the ashes before he returned the cutty to his mouth.
“Secrets?” said he. “Why, you makes me laugh to talk of having secrets here!”
He broke off, restless in a shaking way to get his pipe to draw; then turned suddenly upon me.