“Right you are, gentlemen,” cried Briggs, slapping his thigh; “and I know what those two hand-barrow stones are. I’ve seen one like ’em before.”
“What?” I said eagerly.
“Moulds, sir, as the old people used to pour the melted stuff in. They used to do it near my old home in Cornwall, only the metal there was tin.”
Chapter Eighteen.
The Old Folks Work.
“Then this isn’t a well, after all,” said Denham, who seemed struck with wonderment.
“No,” I said excitedly, as all kinds of Aladdin-like ideas connected with wealth began to run through my mind; “but there’s water in it, and it will serve us as a well.”
“Yes, of course,” cried Denham. “I say, you two have made a discovery.” Then he lit a match, got it well in a blaze, and let it drop down the square shaft, when it kept burning till, at about a hundred feet below us, it went out with a faint hiss, which told that it had reached the water.