“Easy, my lad; easy,” said old Prawle. “Don’t you like the look of the mine?”
Geoffrey did not answer, but pulled away, though with less violence; and so they rowed on till suddenly old Prawle exclaimed, as they were lying now well under the promontory,—
“You’d best give me the other oar.”
Without a word Geoffrey obeyed, and watched him curiously as, after taking both sculls now, he turned the boat’s head towards the rocks, and waiting his time, as he pulled gently on, he paused till a good wave came in, and then, balancing the little boat on the top, allowed it to be carried right in between a couple of masses of rock, barely wide enough apart to admit of its passing. Then, pulling one oar sharply, he turned round by another mass of rock, and Geoffrey found that they were in smooth water, floating in under a rough arch, so low that they had to bend right down in the boat for a minute; after which the ceiling rose, and he found that they were in a rugged cavern, whose light only came from the low opening through which they had passed. It was a gloomy, weird-looking place, in which the waves plashed, and sucked, and sounded hollow, echoing, and strange, each wave that came softly rolling in, carrying them forward as it passed under them, and then seemed to continue its journey into the darkness ahead.
“Mouth’s covered at high water,” said old Prawle, as he laid the oars in the boat.
“Then how shall we get out?” said Geoffrey, to whom the idea of being caught by the tide and drowned in such a place as this had, in spite of his troubles, no attraction.
“Same as we got in,” growled old Prawle. “’Fraid?”
“No,” said Geoffrey, sturdily. “I don’t want to be caught though.”
“I’ve been several times,” said the old man, with a hoarse chuckle. “It scared me the first time, but I soon found there was plenty of room.”
“Bit of smuggling?” said Geoffrey.