“I don’t know; but he tells me you worked in it.”
Prawle nodded.
“Well, you must have seen a good deal of what the rock is like.”
“Like rubbish,” said the old man, hastily. “Thousands have been wasted there, and thousands more will be by anybody who’s fool enough to work it.”
“Humph?” said Geoffrey, between two puffs of smoke, “perhaps so. Is that your honest opinion?”
As he spoke he gazed full in the old man’s eyes, which met his without flinching for a few moments, but only to sink before the searching gaze and take refuge on the ground.
“Never you mind what’s my honest opinion. I’m not an Amos Pengelly to go and chatter about my affairs.”
“A still tongue makes a wise head, Master Prawle,” said Geoffrey, “even about little smuggling and wrecking jobs.”
“What do you know about smuggling and wrecking?” cried Prawle, angrily.
“Very little,” said Geoffrey, “only this cove looks to me about as convenient a place as well could be for any little job of that sort.”