“What’s he found?” said Joe.
“Oh, it’s only at the gulls lower down. There’s that shelf where it looks as if the granite had slipped down a little way. Let’s see what he is about.”
The dog kept up his barking, and the boys walked up, to find no gull below, but Tom Dinass seated in a nook smoking his pipe, with a couple of ominous-looking pieces of stone within reach of his hand, both evidently intended for Grip’s special benefit should he attack, which he refrained from doing.
“Mornin’, gentlemen,” said the man. “Wish you’d keep that dawg chained up when you come to the mine; you see he don’t like me.”
“He won’t hurt you if you don’t tease him,” said Gwyn. “Come to heel, Grip.”
The dog uttered a remonstrant growl, but obeyed, and Dinass drew himself back against the cliff.
“Safer down here,” he said.
“Yes, you are safer there,” said Gwyn. “Good-morning.”
“One minute, sir, please. Don’t go away yet; I want just a word with you.”
“Yes, what is it?” said Gwyn, shortly, while Joe gazed from the man to the depths below, troubled the while by some confused notion that he meant mischief.