“I will, Prawle,” said Geoffrey, earnestly, as he shook off his forebodings; “and, somehow or another, I’ll make it pay.”
“That’ll do, my lad; we understand one another, and you won’t repent it. Just give one more look at your compass.”
Geoffrey did so.
“Now then, you feel pretty sure you can hit the workings from here?”
“Yes, I feel certain,” said Geoffrey; “and it will relieve the mine without pumping, but not so that we can get the tin.”
“That’ll do,” said the old man, nodding. “Come along.”
He led the way to the boat, and once more kneeling in her bows, he directed their way along the subterranean passage, while Geoffrey leaned back in the stern watching him, and thinking that if he had been an artist he would have desired no better suggestion for a picture of Charon ferrying some unfortunate soul across the Styx, so weird and darksome was their way, so strange and gloomy the shadows cast, till once more in the distance appeared a faint gleam of light playing upon the surface of the water. Then the low arch came into view, and soon after they were out in broad daylight once again, and rowing steadily towards the Cove.