“That means we’re both going to be very rich some day,” said Gwyn; “but it doesn’t matter. Come on, and let’s give old Grip a jolly good run. Come on, old dog.”
Grip did not come, but led off; and they made for the edge of the cliff, which ran along, on an average, three hundred feet above where the waves beat at their feet, but they had not gone far before Joe, who had glanced back, said quickly,—
“What’s Tom Dinass following us for out here?”
Gwyn glanced back, too.
“Not following us,” he said quickly; “he’s making for the bend of the rock yonder.”
“Yes,” said Joe; “but that’s where he knows we shall have to pass. What does he mean? He must have seen us at the mine and followed.”
“I don’t know,” said Gwyn, thoughtfully; and a peculiar feeling of uneasiness attacked him. “But never mind; let’s go on, or he’ll think we’re afraid of him.”
“I am,” said Joe, frankly.
“Well, then, if you are, you mustn’t show it. Come on. Quiet, Grip.”
For though the man was several hundred yards away, Grip had caught sight of him, set up all the thick hair about his neck, and uttered a low, deep growl.