“Oh, my father will go, of course; but he said I’d better not go till the mine was more dry, and the man-engine had been made and fitted.”
“Hurrah! Glad of it!”
“What do you mean by that?” cried Gwyn, angrily.
“What I say! I don’t see why you should be allowed to go, and me stay up at grass.”
“Humph! Just the place for you,” said Gwyn.
“And what do you mean by that?” cried Joe, angrily in turn.
“Proper place for a donkey where there’s plenty of grass.”
“Ah, now you’ve got one of your nasty disagreeable fits on. Just like a Cornishman—I mean boy.”
“Better be a Cornish chap than a Frenchy.”
“Frenchy! We’ve been long enough in England to be English now,” cried Joe. “But it’s too hard for us not to go.”