“But you’re scarred of a pistol, eh lad? Well, I wunner at yo’.”
“Well, see what a pistol is.”
“Ay, I know what a pistol is, lad. Man’s got a pistol, and yo’ hit ’im a tap on the knuckles, and he lets it fall. Then he stoops to pick it up, and knobstick comes down on his head. Nowt like a knobstick, lad, whether it be a man or a bit o’ wood. Wants no loading, and is allus safe.”
“Well, all I’ve got to say is, if I have the wuck to do I shall—”
Churr, churry, screech, and grind. The noise drowned the words I was eager to hear, and I stood bathed with perspiration, and hot and cold in turn.
That some abominable plot was in hatching I was sure, and in another minute I might have heard something that would have enabled us to be upon our guard; but the opportunity had passed, for the men were working harder than ever.
I was evidently in very bad odour with them, and I thought bitterly of the old proverb about listeners never hearing any good of themselves.
What should I do—stop and try to hear more?
Jig, jig, tug, tug at the top of my rod, and I looked down to see that the float was out of sight and the rod nearly touching the water.
My fisherman’s instinct made me strike at once, and in spite of the agitation produced by the words I had heard I was ready for the exciting struggle I expected to follow. I had certainly hooked a fish which struggled and tugged to get away; but it was not the great carp or tench I expected to capture, only a miserable little eel which I drew through the water as I walked slowly along the ledge towards the end of the works farthest from the wheel, where I climbed on the wall, and, still dragging my prize, I went right on to the far end, where the water came in from the stream. There I crossed the wooden plank that did duty for a bridge, and glanced furtively back at the windows of the works looking out upon the dam.