“Don’t you interrupt,” said Hardock. “I want to talk to the young masters about him. Have you told the guv’nors what I said about Tom Dinass?”
“’Course they haven’t,” said Vores. “He’s got a crotchet in his head, gentlemen, that poor Tom Dinass made a hole, and let in the sea-water.”
“Crotchet? Ah, I know, and so do they. I say he did it out o’ spite.”
“How?” said Vores, with a grim smile at the visitors.
“I don’t say how,” replied Hardock; “but if we knew we should find he sunk dinnymite somehow and fired it over one of the old workings.”
“Struck a match and held it under water, eh?”
“Don’t you talk about what you don’t understand,” said Hardock, sternly. “You ask the young gentlemen here if shots can’t be fired under water with ’lectric shocks, or pulling a wire that will break bottles of acid and some kinds of salts.”
“Well, if Tom Dinass did that,” said Vores, sharply, “I hope he blew himself up as well; but it’s all a crank of yours, old man. Tom Dinass never did that. Let the poor fellow alone where he lies, somewhere at the bottom of the mine.”
“Ah, you’ll see,” said Hardock—“You give my dooty to your fathers, young gentlemen, and tell them I’d be glad to see them if they’d look in on me. I’d come up to them, as in dooty bound, but my legs won’t go. I s’pose it’s rheumatiz. I want to hear what they’ll say.”
“Do you think the mine can be pumped dry again, Sam?” said Gwyn, suddenly, “so as to get to work once more?”