“To be sure you will,” said Prawle.
“But only to a certain level,” said Geoffrey, despondently. “It is of no use, Prawle; the tin would be fathoms below.”
“Damn the tin, boy,” cried the old man, excitedly; and, as they stood on a narrow shelf of rock there, he gripped Geoffrey fiercely by the arm. “Look here, you, Master Trethick, no man ever did me an ill turn but what I paid him off, and no man ever did me a good turn but I paid him off.”
“I never did you an ill turn,” said Geoffrey.
“No,” said the old man, “but you did me a good one, and I wouldn’t have minded now if you’d have had my Bessie; but that’s nayther here nor there. If she likes lame Amos Pengelly better o’ the two, why she must have him; but you helped her when she was hard put to it, and now look here, I’m going to do you a good turn, and myself too.”
“How? I tell you that your adit would be good for nothing,” cried Geoffrey.
“Tchah! Look here,” cried the old man, pulling a sale bill out of his pocket. “Here it all is—Wheal Carnac.”
“Put the thing away; it makes me feel half-mad to see it. I tore one down,” cried Geoffrey.
“You be quiet,” continued the old man, holding the bill against the mossy rock, so that the light from the lantern fell upon the big letters.
“Here you are, you see—To be sold by auction, at the M, A, R, T, Mart, Token-house-yard, unless pre—vi—ously disposed of by private contract.”