“Arthur!” protested Mrs Pendarve.
“Losing yourself in some of the mazy recesses of the ancient workings.”
“Really, my dear!” began Mrs Pendarve; but the Colonel went on—
“Or getting crushed to death by some fall of the mine roofing that has been tottering ready to fall perhaps for hundreds of years.”
“Pray don’t talk like that, my dear,” said Mrs Pendarve, piteously.
“He doesn’t mean it, mother,” said Gwyn, laughing. “Father’s only saying it to frighten me. But really, father, do you think the mine is so very old?”
“I have no doubt of it, my boy. It is certainly as old as the Roman occupation, and I should not be surprised if it proved to be as early as the time when the Phoenicians traded here for tin.”
“But I thought it was only stream tin that they got. I read it somewhere.”
“No doubt, my boy, they searched the surface for tin; but suppose you had been a sturdy fellow from Tyre or Sidon, instead of a tiresome, idle, mischievous young nuisance of an English boy—”
“Not quite so bad as that, am I, mother?” said Gwyn, laughing.