“Sha’n’t,” shouted Gwyn, making an effort over himself. “I won’t be such a jolly miserable coward, and you sha’n’t neither. We’ll do something.”
“Ay, it’s all very well to talk, but what can we do?—cooey?”
“No good, or I’d cooey loud enough to bring some of the stones down. I say, though, isn’t it wonderful how solid it all is—no stones falling from the roof.”
“How could they fall when there are none to fall? Isn’t it all cut through the solid rock?”
“Humph! yes, I suppose so; but we have found scarcely anything to fall over.”
“No,” said Joe, sarcastically, “it’s a lovely place. I wish the beastly old mine had been burnt before we had anything to do with it.”
“Oh, I say, what a plucked ’un you are, Joey. Breaking down over a bit of trouble. I feel ever so much better now, for I’m sure the dad has found his way out.”
“I was thinking about my father.”
“Well, so was I. My father wouldn’t go out without yours. They’re too good old chums to forsake one another; and you see if before long they don’t both come with a lot of men carrying baskets—cold roast chicken, slices of ham, bread and butter, and a kettle and wood to light the fire and make some tea.”
“I say! don’t, don’t, don’t,” cried Joe. “I was bad enough before, now you’re making me feel savagely hungry. But I say, Ydoll, do you really think they’ve got out?”