“Can’t go like that, young gents. Them caps won’t do. Here, come out. Who’ll lend young masters hats?”
A couple of the strong leathern hats were eagerly offered, but only one would fit, and a fresh selection had to be made.
“Better have flannel jackets, sir,” said the engineer to Gwyn.
“No, no, we can’t wait for anything else. Come, Joe. Now let us down.”
He raised the iron rail which protected the hole, and again stepped into the skep, followed by Joe, lanthorn in hand, and with the candle-box slung from his shoulder.
“Now, Tom Dinass,” cried the engineer, “I’m with you.”
“Nay, I don’t go this time,” was the surly reply, as Dinass looked sharply round at the men who had crowded into the shed, and in response to a meaning nod from the engineer began to edge nearer to him.
“Are you quite ready, Joe? Lower away,” cried Gwyn.
“Wait a minute, sir,” said the engineer, “you aren’t quite ready. Now, then, Dinass, be a man.”