“Lie down, you old stupid!” cried Gwyn.
“Let him have a run,” said Joe, picking up the stone and jerking it as far as he could over the short grassy down, the dog tearing off again.
“Ugh! Look at your hand,” said Gwyn, “all wet with the dog’s ‘serlimer,’ as the showman called it.”
“Oh, that’s clean enough,” said Joe; but he gave his hand a rub on the grass all the same.
The dog came back panting, and Joe picked up the stone to give it another jerk, but, looking round for a fresh direction in which to throw it, he dropped the piece of granite.
“Come on!” he shouted, as he started off; “they’re going to the shaft.”
Gwyn glanced in the direction of the mine, and started after Joe, raced up to him, and they ran along to the building over the mouth, getting there just at the same time as the Colonel and Major Jollivet, the dog coming frantically behind.
“Well, boys,” cried the Colonel, “here we are, you see. Wish us luck.”
“Of course I do, father,” said Gwyn. “But you’d better let us come, too.”
“No, no, no, no,” said the Colonel, “better wait a bit. Besides, you are not dressed for it. We are, you see.”