“Oh, at the bottom of the shaft. Dull because no one was down. Then why did you suggest that there was an accident? You gave me quite a turn.”
“’Cause there was an accident, sir,” said Hardock, quietly; and he led the way into the great shed over the pit mouth, where all was very still.
Gwyn saw at a glance that something serious had happened to the dog, which was lying on a roughly-made bed composed of a miner’s flannel coat placed on the floor, beside which Harry Vores was kneeling; and as soon as the dog heard steps he raised his head, turned his eyes pitifully upon his master, and uttered a doleful howl.
“Why, Grip, old chap, what have you been doing?” cried Gwyn, excitedly.
“Don’t torment him, sir,” said Vores; “he’s badly hurt.”
“Where? Oh, Grip! Grip!” cried Gwyn, as he laid his hand on the dog’s head, while the poor beast whined dolefully, and made an effort to lick the hand that caressed him, as he gazed up at his master as if asking for sympathy and help.
“Both his fore-legs are broken, sir, and I’m afraid he’s got nipped across the loins as well.”
“Nay, nay, nay, Harry,” growled Hardock; “not him. If he had been he wouldn’t have yowled till you heerd him.”
“Nipped?” said Gwyn. “Then it wasn’t a fall?”
“Nay, sir; Harry Vores and me thinks he must ha’ missed you, and thought you’d gone down the mine, and waited his chance and jumped on to the up-and-down to go down himself.”