“Do for smugglers. Wonder whether any smugglers ever knew of it?”
“No; if they had there would have been some way down to the mouth.”
“And perhaps there is, only it’s too dark for us to see where it is.”
Then the conversation languished, and they sat on the rough shaley earth, trying to pierce the gloom, and listening with quite a start from time to time to the sharp whirr of the pigeons’ wings as they darted in and out.
At last, just when they were beginning to think it a terribly long time, Samson’s voice was heard.
“Here you are! I’ve brought my line.”
“And a big stone?”
“Yes, Master Fred; eight or nine pounder. But I warn you once more that line won’t bear you boys.”
“You do as I tell you. Now tie the stone to the line.”
There was a few moments’ pause, during which they seemed to see the red-faced gardener as he busied himself over his task, and then down came the words—