"Oh, hush, Darby; do hush! You don't know"—Gheena came close to him—"you don't know the kind of things I think," she whispered.
"If there was any use in those blamed bits of rock," said Basil Stafford's voice.
"My friend, is there any use in dead butterflies, in used postage stamps, or an array of foxes' heads and tails? The rocks are my hobby to collect and ascertain the stratum. Himmel!" This exclamation was caused by Crabbit rolling a completely unwashed small rock on to the Professor's neck.
"Rabbits," said the Professor, "excavating. In time stuffed. Shall I not have a complete report of every coast in Britain?"
Stafford said "Oh! add a 'c,'" rather dubiously. "You'd be paid a bit for that just now," he added grimly.
"To tell them what was the softest rock to hit against. Hein!" The old man chuckled. "And I am well salaried, pensioned; I have no need of money."
"Before I came here I wanted it as I shall never want it again," said Stafford slowly. "An old debt suddenly cropping up, a dying mother with her only chance an operation and a minus balance at the bank, and half pay. But it all came right."
"You found means to get the money—eh?"
"More than I wanted," said Basil. "I got it in a way I hated getting it by, but it's here—and it saved my mother too."
Gheena drew back slowly, her face flushed.