“What for?”
“Wants a job. I’m mining, and I heared you was going to open the old mine. Think your guv’nors’ll take me on?”
“You put down that stone before you ask questions,” said Gwyn.
“You shut up your dog’s mouth, then. I don’t want to kill him, but I aren’t going to have him stick his teeth into me.”
“The dog won’t hurt you if you don’t threaten him. Throw away that stone.”
“There you are, then; but I warn you, if he comes at me, I’ll let him have my boot, and if he does get it, he won’t have any more head.”
“Quiet, Grip!” said Gwyn, as the man threw away the stone, and the dog whined and said, “Don’t talk to me like that; this fellow isn’t to be trusted; make me drive him away.” At least not in words, for the dog spoke with his eyes, which seemed to suggest that this course should be taken.
“Who are you, and where do you come from?” said Gwyn, looking at the man suspiciously.
“Truro. All sorts o’ places wherever there’s mines open and—work.”
“And you heard that this one was going to be opened?”