He checked himself, grinning.
“I was going to say ‘Dutchman,’” said he; “and, for all we know, they may be listening up there.”
“O, don’t be a beast!” I exclaimed, with a wriggle of discomfort.
He chuckled again.
“Well, anyhow,” he said, “here’s the old well just standing on its end, like a drain-pipe with a tilt to it. If we brought spades and dug away underneath on the outside, it would fall—and on the top of us, too; but that’s a detail. Wonder the storm didn’t finish it, don’t you? Must have come pretty near to.”
As he spoke, staring up at me, he suddenly uttered a soft exclamation, and scrambling to his feet, pulled at my arm.
“Look there!” he whispered. “Don’t move!”
I followed the direction of his hand, which was pointing to the scar in the cliff-face above. I could see nothing.
“Hush, you old fool!” he said impatiently. “Keep quiet!”
I did not stir; till, at the end of a long interval, something made me start involuntarily. It was a wink—a flutter—a motion of some sort, I knew not what, on the hill front.