The boys exchanged glances, but did not try to explain; neither speaking till, to their surprise, the man turned suddenly to his right, and made for a huge buttress which ran out some fifty feet from the rugged edge of the cliff and ended in a soft patch of sheep-nibbled, velvet grass, upon which lay, partly buried, a couple of long iron guns, while the remains of a breastwork of stone guarded the edge of the cliff.
“I say! where are you going?” cried Vince.
“Eh? Here,” said the man, sitting down astride of one of the old cannon. “Think I was going to pitch you off?”
“No,” said Vince coolly, as he went close to the edge and looked down at the deeply-coloured purple, almost black, water at the foot of the cliff, where there was not an inch of strand. “Wouldn’t much matter if you did: it’s awfully deep there, and no rocks. I could swim.”
“Swim? Wheer?” said the man sharply. “No man could swim far there. T’reble currents and deep holes, where the tide runs into and sucks you down if it don’t take you out to sea. Nobody’s safe there.”
“Might go all right in a boat,” said Vince, still gazing down, attracted by the place, where he had often watched before, and noted how the cormorants, shags, and rock-doves flew in and out, disappearing beneath his feet—for the great buttress overhung the sea, and its face could only be seen by those who sailed by.
“Nay, nay; no one goes in a boat along here, boy. There, I’m going to fill my pipe and light it, and then we’ll go. Which o’ you’s got a sun-glass?”
“I have,” said Vince quickly.
“Let’s have it, then: save me nicking about with my flint and steel.”
The rough black pipe was filled, and the convex lens held so that the sun’s rays were brought to a focus on the tobacco, which dried rapidly, crisped up, and soon began to smoke, when a few draws ignited the whole surface, and the man began to puff slowly and regularly as he handed back the glass.