“Lanthorns won’t be no good in the fog.”
“Don’t you be so mighty clever,” growled Shackle. “How do you know that the fog reaches up far?”
“Did you signal s’afternoon, father?”
“Lanthorns! And look sharp, sir.”
The boy went into the back kitchen, took down from a shelf three horn-lanthorns, which had the peculiarity of being painted black save in one narrow part. Into these he glanced to see that they were all fitted with thick candles before passing a piece of rope through the rings at the top.
This done he took down a much smaller lanthorn, painted black all round, lit the candle within, and, taking this one in his hand, he hung the others over his shoulder, and prepared to start.
“Mind and don’t you slip over the cliff, Ram,” said his mother.
“Tchah! Don’t scare the boy with that nonsense,” said the farmer angrily; “why should he want to slip over the cliff? Put ’em well back, boy. Stop ’bout half an hour, and then come down.”
Ram nodded and went off whistling down along the hollow for some hundred yards toward the sea, and then, turning short off to the right, he began to climb a zigzag path which led higher and higher and more and more away to his left till it skirted the cliff, and he was climbing slowly up through the fog.
The lad’s task was robbed of the appearance of peril by the darkness; but the danger never occurred to Ram, who had been up these cliff-paths too often for his pleasure to heed the breakneck nature of the rough sheep-track up and up the face of the cliff, leading to where it became a steep slope, which ran in and on some four hundred feet, forming one of the highest points in the neighbourhood.