“Look at that, sir,” said Dinass, laughing; but there was a peculiar look in his eyes. “Strikes me as he’d eat cold meat any day without pickles.”
“I’ll take care he sha’n’t bite your legs, with or without pickles,” said Gwyn, laughing. “Come along, Joe, and let’s go and have a talk to Sam Hardock about the—what did he call it—far—far—what?”
“I don’t know,” replied Joe; “but somehow I wish Master Tom Dinass hadn’t been taken on.”
“Going to have a man-engine, are they?” muttered Dinass, as he sat watching the two lads from the corners of his eyes. “Seems to me that things have gone pretty nigh far enough, and they’ll have to be stopped. Won’t eat my legs with or without pickles, won’t he? No, he won’t if I know it. Getting pretty nigh all the water out too. Well, I daresay there’ll be enough of it to drown that dog.”
Chapter Twenty Three.
Grip takes an Interest.
“Now, Joe, this ought to be a big day,” said Gwyn, one bright morning. “Father’s all in a fidget, and he looked as queer at breakfast as if he hadn’t slept all night.”
“Wasn’t any as if,” replied Joe; “my father says he didn’t sleep a wink for thinking about the mine.”