For at the corner of the stone-walled lane, whose left side skirted the Colonel’s property, which extended for half-a-mile along by the sea, the estate having been bought a bargain for the simple reason that its many acres grew scarcely anything but furze, heather and rag-wort, the rest being bare, storm-weathered granite, they came suddenly upon a dry-looking brown-faced man with a coil of rope worn across his chest like an Alpine guide.
He was seated on the low wall dotted with pink stone-crop and golden and grey lichens, chewing something, the brown stain at the corner of his lips suggesting that the something was tobacco; and he turned his head slowly toward them, and spoke in a harsh grating voice, as they came up.
“Going to the old mine?” he said. “I thought you would, after what I told you this morning. I’ll go with you.”
“Did you bring that rope on purpose?” said Gwyn, quickly.
“O’ course, my son. You couldn’t look at the gashly place without.”
Gwyn glanced at Joe, and the latter laughed, while the mining captain displayed his brown teeth.
“Right, aren’t it?” he said. “Didn’t tell the Colonel what I said, I s’pose?”
“Yes, I did,” cried Gwyn; “and he as good as said it was all nonsense.”
“Maybe it be, and maybe it ban’t,” said the man, quietly. “You two come along with me and have a look. I’ve brought a hammer with me, too; and I say, let’s chip off a bit or two of the stuff, and see what it’s like. If it’s good, your father may like to work it. If it’s poor, we sha’n’t be no worse off than we was before, shall we?”
“No, of course not,” said Gwyn, “what do you say, Joe—shall we go?”