“Pity you!” Monjoy said contemptuously; “you’d have more pity from me if your iggs didn’t always suit your own ends so pat. I know your head-knocking on walls; how much of it do you do when there’s nobody watching you? It goes down with women and fools that Ellah’s iggs must be humoured, but in two words, Ellah, my man, you’re a lazy devil, and if you can contrive it to live without working you will. I know your iggs; you’re the sort that shapes to drown themselves and puts their hands in the water first.”
Ellah, crouched on the boulder, looked stupidly at the stones at his feet. Saliva bubbled at his lips.
“The rod turned my stomach an’ all,” he complained.
“Would I ask you to do it if I could do it myself? Didn’t it twist nearly out of your hands over Holdsworth Head?”
“That was me—I made it,” Ellah moaned.
“You’re a liar, and you lie now. Will you tell me you vomited on purpose?—(That’s it, clutch at your face and make as if you were mad!)—Here are hills that ring with metal to your tread, riddled with old workings, chambers and veins and galleries of it, and only a lazy rogue that’s trying to make himself out mad to find it!”
“I can’t abide moors,” murmured Ellah, monotonously. “And th’ rod ought to ha’ been cut afore sunrise, o’ Ladyday, wi’ prayers and such. And ye can find it wi’out it, for the grass won’t grow over metal, and the trees has blue leaves——” He put the trumpet into his pocket and rocked himself on the boulder.
Monjoy began to stride up and down again. He himself understood nothing of the virtues of the mystic twig save that its operation was not fruitless, and for the rest he had gone to work methodically enough. He knew that the thing had been done before. Patents had been prayed for and granted. Already, by the cunning letting-down of noble ores with inferior, not every mine that was royal in quality had become a Mine Royal; there was history for it as well as tradition. This was Back o’ th’ Mooin, too, that had already mulcted the king in his most jealously-guarded prerogative.—Back o’ th’ Mooin? A Peru, for all he knew; and for much less than that his desperate fortunes already involved the stricture of his neck by the hangman’s halter. And had he not already proofs in his garret over the warehouse in the Fullergate?... He thrust the trumpet into the deaf man’s hand again.
“See!” he bawled; “we’re going home now. We’re going home, and I’ll show you whether we’ve wasted our time. I’ll show you how I’ve passed my nights this many a month. Do charcoal fumes give you iggs, too? Up!—And mind, it’s little more than chance-found stuff so far, poor ore; but poor stuff as it is, with the setting up of crushers and stampers in caves and holes and tunnels, and a furnace sunk in a deep shaft.... Up! You shall be the first to see it. Cram these stones into your pockets.—Let me once get going, and Bloody Cumberland himself couldn’t rout me out!”
He thrust Ellah roughly down the ravine. They climbed to the Causeway beyond the Nick, and the sheep scampered before them and stood to watch them as they passed. When they reached the bellpits, Monjoy flung out his arm as if he would have spoken, then muttered to himself instead; and he almost carried Ellah along in his haste. It was clear evening before they descended the Scout and passed through Wadsworth; and when they reached Horwick they strode past the “Cross Pipes” and passed quickly up the Fullergate. At the door of Matthew Moon’s warehouse Monjoy produced a key.