“Hah!” ejaculated my father suddenly, as he seemed to pounce upon a fragment of stone something like the first I held. “Here’s another, and another, and another,” I said. “Yes, plenty,” he replied rather hoarsely, as he picked up a couple more pieces. “Place them in your pocket, boy.”
As he spoke he looked about him up and down, and ended by uttering another sharp exclamation, for in one place there was a rugged patch of rock just like the fragments we held, and seeming as if the cliff-side there was one solid mass.
“Look here, Sep,” he said quietly; “be smart, and gather up all the rough pieces of common grey slate you can find and throw them about here I’ll help.”
I set to work and he aided me vigorously, with the result that in a short time we had hidden the bright metallic-looking patch, and then he laid his hand upon my arm.
“That will do,” he said. “Now, keep a silent tongue in your head. I’ll talk more to you afterwards. Let’s go home now. Stop,” he cried, starting; “don’t seem to look, but turn your head slightly towards the sea. Your eyes are better than mine. Who’s that standing on the piece of rock over yonder. Can you see?”
“No, father, not yet.”
“Look more to the north, boy. Just over the big rock that stands out of the cliff-side. There’s a man watching us.”
“Yes, I see, father,” I cried.
“Who is it?” he whispered, as he led the way along by the steep slope so that we might descend and go up the Gap by the stream side and reach the shore.
“Yes, I know, I’m sure now,” I cried. “It’s old Jonas Uggleston.”