“Then I say it’s all prejudice. Tom’s turning out a thoroughly good fellow. See how willing he was over the fishing, and how he helped us this evening. You’re always picking holes in Tom Dinass’s coat. What’s that?”
A peculiar loud sneeze rang out suddenly from across the rough moorland to their right, where the blocks of granite lay thick.
“Tom Dinass,” said Joe, in a whisper; and he stepped quickly behind a block of stone, Gwyn involuntarily following him. “That’s his way of sneezing,” whispered Joe. “What’s he doing over here to-night?”
The boys stood there perfectly silent; and directly after there was a faint rustling, and the figure of a man was seen upon the higher ground against the skyline for a minute or so, as he passed them, crossing their track, and apparently making for the cliffs.
Their view was indistinct, but the man seemed to be carrying something over his shoulder. Then he was gone.
“Going congering,” said Gwyn. “He’s making for the way down the rocks, so as to get to the point.”
“He wouldn’t go congering to-night,” said Joe. “We gave him as much fish as he’d want.”
“Going for the sport of the thing.”
“Down that dangerous way in the dark?”
“I daresay he knows it all right, and it saves him from going round by the fishermen’s cottages—half-a-mile or more.”