He smilingly drew attention to their shooting caps and boots and long mackintoshes.
“Yes,” said the Major, laughing, “we’re ready for a wet campaign.”
Gwyn was not in the habit of arguing with his father, whose quietest words always carried with them a military decision which meant a great deal, so he was silent, and contented himself with a glance at Joe, who took his cue from him and remained quiet.
Several of the men were there standing about the square iron-bound box attached by a wire rope to a wheel overhead, and known as the skep, which, with another, would be the conveyances of the ore that was to be found, from deep down in the mine to the surface, or, as the miners termed it, to grass; and until the man-engine was finished this was the ordinary way up and down.
There was Sam Hardock, muffled up in flannel garments, and wearing a leather cap like a helmet, with a brim, in front of which was his feather represented by a thick tallow candle. He was armed with a stout pick in his belt, and the Colonel and Major both carried large geological hammers.
Tom Dinass was there, too, in charge with the engineer of the skep, to ensure a safe descent.
Then there were lanthorns, and Hardock, in addition, bore by a strap over his shoulder what looked like a large cartouche box, but its contents were to re-load the lanthorns, being thick tallow candles.
“Got plenty of matches, Hardock?” said Gwyn, eagerly.
“Oh yes, sir, two tin boxes full.”
“We have each a supply of wax matches, too, my boy,” said the Colonel. “All ready, I think,” he continued, turning to the Major, who nodded, and then said to him in a low tone of voice, overheard by the boys in addition to him for whom it was addressed,—