Glyn’s heart seemed to stand still as the man gave a snatch at the rope.
“That’s the way to strike,” he cried excitedly. “I’ve caught him, and a heavy one too.”
Glyn’s heart sank with disappointment, for there was no heaviness about the belt, and he stood waiting now as the winch was steadily turned and the bucket began to rise.
They had not been observed before, but a little party of about a dozen of the younger boys had been hovering for some time about the well-house-door, and first one and then another made a dash in from time to time when Wrench was too busy with the buckets to take any notice of them.
Burton had come inside now, to range up close to Glyn, and in an affectionate way passed his arm round that of the lad who had been his defender more than once.
Glyn responded by withdrawing his arm, placing both hands on the little fellow’s shoulders, and thrusting him in front so that the boy could have a good view of all that there was to see.
“I say, Severn,” he cried, turning his head to look up, “no larks—no shoving me down the well!”
“Why not?” said Severn merrily, as he gripped the little fellow tighter.
“Because old Slegge will want me to bowl for him, and he likes kicking me.”
“Likes kicking you? Why?” said Glyn, speaking almost mechanically, for he was anxiously watching the dark hole for the ascent of the next bucket.