"If you'll walk up as far as that with me, I could jump across into your orchard, if you don't object, and I'll be punctual at the well. That's a lot shorter than goin' round by the village."
Milly thought her grandfather would probably object very much, but she risked it, for she thought a little walk along the water-side with that "lazy, idle good-for-nothing" would be rather pleasant. As they went along they talked about the well. The worst and most dangerous work was to come.
"Some one, you see, must go down after them poor chaps," Geo explained. "You see they'll be so cramped and done up they'll never get themselves safe through the opening; for I expect that'll have to be a precious small one from what I see when I left, and you say they've not got at 'em yet."
"No," said Milly; "my grandfather called round an hour ago, and he said the hole wasn't no bigger than what would admit an ordinary man, and that they were binding it round with straw and making it as strong as they could, because that man Hayes is so big they're frightened he should break it down, and father said nobody seemed as if they wanted to try it."
"Not a doubt about that," said Geo, tightening his lips.
Something in his voice made Milly glance up at him. The look on his face was the same one that Mr. Rutland had surprised on it a year ago.
"You're never going to do it yourself?" she exclaimed involuntarily.
"Not unless I have to," Geo answered quietly, and speaking as if to himself. "But it's got to be done, and I'm not a married man. Martin is, and so are the other two."
Milly did not answer. To those who follow dangerous callings in all ranks of life such an argument is unanswerable. Milly understood, and said nothing.
They had reached the gate where Geo had sat and watched Milly vainly endeavouring to reach the water only a very short time ago now. The blossom was off the May, of course, but the half-starved buttercups were enjoying a second season.