“Look here, Ladle,” he said: “if you go on like this I’ll punch your head. No nonsense—I will. I don’t believe that French skipper dare hurt us, but we won’t give him the chance to. We can’t see a way out of the hobble yet, but that’s nothing. It’s a problem, as Mr Deane would say, and we’ve got to solve it.”
“Who can solve problems standing in cold water? My legs are swelling already, same as Jemmy Carnach’s did when he was swept out in his boat and nearly swamped, and didn’t get back for three days.”
“You’re right,” said Vince. “I can’t think with my feet so cold. Let’s get into a dry place.”
“What, go out?”
“No,” said Vince; “we’ll go in.”
Chapter Twenty Three.
A Strange Night’s Lodging.
Mike shrank from attempting to penetrate farther into the narrow hole; but Vince’s determination was contagious, and, in obedience to a jog of the elbow, he followed his companion, as, with the lanthorn held high enough for him to look under, the cudgel in his right-hand, he began to wade on, finding that the passage twisted about a little, very much as the tunnel formed by the stream did—of course following the vein of mineral which had once existed, and had gradually decayed away.