“Man who goes down a mine ought to be very careful.”
“O’ course, sir; but they things are horrid bad. I don’t like ’em.”
“But they can’t be so dangerous as ladders, or going down in a bucket at the end of a string or chain; you might fall, or the chain might break. Such things do happen,” said Gwyn.
“Ay, sir, they do sometimes; but I don’t like a farkun. Accident’s an accident, and you must have some; but these are horrid, and we shall be having some accident with that dog of yours if we don’t mind.”
“Accident?” said Gwyn. “What do you mean?”
“He’ll be a-biting me, and I shall have to go into horspittle.”
“Oh, he won’t hurt you,” cried Gwyn.
“Don’t know so much about that, sir,” said the man, grinning. “I should say if he did bite he would hurt me a deal. Must have a precious nice pair o’ legs, or he wouldn’t keep smelling ’em as he does, and then stand licking his jaws.”
“I tell you he won’t hurt you,” cried Gwyn. “Here, Grip—come away.”
The dog looked up at his master, and passed his tongue about his lower jaw.