“Don’t I tell you it half drives me mad to think of the mine being sold?”
“With all the pumping and other gear, nearly new engines, and modern machinery,” read on old Prawle.
“Are you doing this to tantalise me, Prawle?” cried Geoffrey. “The whole affair will go for a song.”
“To be sure,” chuckled the old man. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, my lad—for a song, a mere song, eh?”
“It’s horrible!” cried Geoffrey, despairingly, “when there’s tin enough there—”
“Hang the tin, I tell you! It’s grand, boy, grand. Look, Mr Trethick, go up to London and buy it.”
“Buy it?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes; buy it for as little as you can get it for.”
“What, to sell the machinery out of it? No, that I won’t.”
“Nay, nay, to work it, lad. Buy it, and you and me will make fortunes, eh?”