“Maybe I do, sir,” growled Prawle, surlily, and apparently only half convinced.
“Sit down then, man, and speak out honestly. What do you know about Wheal Carnac?”
“Wheal Carnac!” said the old man, starting. “What do I know about it? Nothing at all—nothing at all.”
“Fill your pipe. Sit down and light up.”
Prawle hesitated for a moment, and glanced at his daughter, then back at their visitor, and ended by sitting down on the bench and knocking the ashes from his pipe to refill it from the tobacco brought by his visitor; while Bess, in whose eyes the tears were gathering, turned away and softly peeped into the cottage.
“That’s better,” said Geoffrey, as both pipes were lit, and they sat under the grey and purple cliff facing the sparkling sea. “Amos Pengelly says he believes you have a good deal of faith in that mine.”
“Amos Pengelly’s a psalm-singing, chattering fool,” said the old man, angrily.
“No he isn’t,” said Geoffrey; “he’s a very good, honest, sensible fellow.”
Bess turned sharply round and looked curiously at him.
“Bah! what does he know ’bout what I think?” growled Prawle.