But next month came round, and they did not begin pumping, for the simple reason that the machinery was not ready. Still it was in fair progress, and an arrangement was fixed so that, when the beam began to rise and fall, the water would be sent gushing into the adit by which Gwyn had made his escape on that adventurous day; and as this little gully had a gentle slope towards the sea, the water would be easily got rid of by its own natural flow.
The boys were at the mouth of the shaft on one particular day, and as the news had been spread that the first steps for drying the mine were to be taken, half the people from the little village had sauntered up, many of them being fisherfolk, and plenty of solemn conversation went on, more than one weather-beaten old sage giving it as his opinion that no good would come of it, for there was something wicked and queer about this old mine, and they all opined that it ought not to have been touched.
Gwyn noticed the head-shakings, and nudged Joe.
“Talking about the goblins in the mine,” he answered. “I say, if there are any, they’ll come rushing up the big tube like the tadpoles did in the garden pump when it was first made.”
Just then Joe caught hold of his companion’s arm, and pinched it.
“Hullo!” cried Gwyn.
“Hush! don’t talk—don’t look till I tell you which way. I’ve just seen him.”
“Seen whom?” said Gwyn, wonderingly.
“That big chap who was measuring the pit. He’s over yonder with about a dozen more men. What does it mean?”
“Mischief,” said Gwyn, huskily. “Quick! Let’s go and warn my father.”