“Will I?” said the boy, showing his teeth. “I’ll follow you anywhere, Master Mark.”
“Well, I want to follow you now. Take me to your father, and—not a word to a soul.”
Dummy slapped his mouth, and shut it close; then going to a niche in the rock, he pointed to a box of candles, and a much bigger one, which he opened and showed to be quite full of long sticks of hempen tow soaked in pitch, one of which he took out, and gave to Mark, and took one himself, lit it, and then led the way down, and in and out among the darkest recesses of the mine.
“Smoky,” said Dummy, giving his torch a wave, and sending the black curls of fume eddying upward, to hang along the stone ceiling. Then he uttered an angry cry.
“What’s the matter?”
“Hot pitch, Master Mark. Big drop splathered on to my hand.”
In due time the place where Dan Rugg was working and directing the men, chipping out the rich lead ore, was reached, and he came out of the murky place.
“Ah, Master Mark,” he said. “You, Dummy, put your foot on that smoky link. Want to smother us?”
“My fault, Dan,” cried Mark. “Come here.”
He communicated a part of the plan, and the miner’s stern face began to relax more and more, till he showed his yellow teeth in a pleasant grin, and put his sharp pick under his arm, so as to indulge in a good rub of his hands.