George Woods, the best natured, soberest man on the Ridge, was smouldering with rage at the ratting.
"I've a good mind to put a bit of dynamite at the bottom of the shaft, and then, when a rat strikes a match, up he'll go," he said.
"But," Watty objected, "how'd you feel when you found a dead man in your claim, George?"
"Feel?" George burst out. "I wouldn't feel—except he'd got no right to be there—and perlitely put him on one side."
"Remember those chaps was up a couple of years ago, George?" Bill Grant asked, "and helped theirselves when Pony-Fence and me had a bit of luck up at Rhyll's hill."
"Remember them?" George growled.
"They'd go round selling stuff if there was anybody to buy—hang round the pub all day, and yet had stuff to sell," Watty murmured.
The men smoked silently for a few minutes.
"How much did they get, again?" Bully Bryant asked.
"Couple of months," George said.