The dog barked again.
“It’s all right,” said Gwyn, merrily. “Now then, pack up, and let’s go home—do you hear, Grip?”
The dog threw up his head and barked loudly.
“Ready, Joe?”
“Ready—of course.”
“Come on, then. Now, Grip, old fellow, lead the way. Go home!”
The dog barked again, and trotted in the opposite direction to which they had expected, making for the partly driven gallery where the roof ran up, showing how the lode of tin had ascended; and when he reached the blank end beginning to bark loudly.
“Come back, stupid!” cried Gwyn; “we found that out ourselves. That’s the end of the mine. All right. Now, lead the way home.”
But the dog barked again loudly; and it was not until Gwyn followed to the end and seized his collar that he gave up. “Now then, off with you, but don’t go too fast. Forward! Quick march!”
The lad had straddled across the dog, holding him between his knees, with head pointed as he believed in the direction of the shaft; and at the last sound he unloosed him from the grip of his knees, and the dog started steadily off, and they followed, but in a few minutes had to take to running, for, after looking back several times to see if he was followed, Grip increased his pace, and directly after disappeared in the darkness beyond the glow shed by the lanthorn.