Chapter Thirty Nine.Grip’s Bad Luck.“Why don’t you speak?” cried Gwyn, angrily. “Has there been an accident? Surely father hasn’t gone down!”“Oh, the Colonel’s all right, sir,” said Hardock, genially. “The gov’nor hasn’t gone and lost himself.”“But there has been an accident, Sam,” cried Joe.“Nor the Major aren’t gone down neither, sir,” said the man. “Here, let me carry that fish basket. Didn’t remember me with a couple o’ mullet, did you?”“Yes, two of those are for you, Sam; but do speak out? What is wrong?”“Something as you won’t like, sir. Your dog Grip’s gone down the mine.”“What for? Thinks we’re there? Well, that’s nothing; he’ll soon find his way up. Why did they let him go down?”“Couldn’t help it, sir,” said the man, slowly.“What—he would go? I did miss him, Joe, when I went home. I remember now, we didn’t see him after we went to the mine. He must have missed us, and then thought we had gone down.”“Sets one thinking of being lost and his coming after us,” said Joe, slowly. “Well, he can’t lose his way.”“But how do you know he went down, Sam?” asked Gwyn, as they approached the mine.“Harry Vores heerd him.”“What, barking?”“’Owlin’.”“Oh, at the bottom of the shaft. Dull because no one was down. Then why did you suggest that there was an accident? You gave me quite a turn.”“’Cause there was an accident, sir,” said Hardock, quietly; and he led the way into the great shed over the pit mouth, where all was very still.Gwyn saw at a glance that something serious had happened to the dog, which was lying on a roughly-made bed composed of a miner’s flannel coat placed on the floor, beside which Harry Vores was kneeling; and as soon as the dog heard steps he raised his head, turned his eyes pitifully upon his master, and uttered a doleful howl.“Why, Grip, old chap, what have you been doing?” cried Gwyn, excitedly.“Don’t torment him, sir,” said Vores; “he’s badly hurt.”“Where? Oh, Grip! Grip!” cried Gwyn, as he laid his hand on the dog’s head, while the poor beast whined dolefully, and made an effort to lick the hand that caressed him, as he gazed up at his master as if asking for sympathy and help.“Both his fore-legs are broken, sir, and I’m afraid he’s got nipped across the loins as well.”“Nay, nay, nay, Harry,” growled Hardock; “not him. If he had been he wouldn’t have yowled till you heerd him.”“Nipped?” said Gwyn. “Then it wasn’t a fall?”“Nay, sir; Harry Vores and me thinks he must ha’ missed you, and thought you’d gone down the mine, and waited his chance and jumped on to the up-and-down to go down himself.”“Oh, but the dog wouldn’t have had sense enough to do that.”“I dunno, sir. Grip’s got a wonderful lot o’ sense of his own! ’Member how he found you two young gents in the mine! Well, he’s seen how the men step on and off the up-and-down, and he’d know how to do it. He must, you know.”“But some of the men would know,” said Gwyn.“Dessay they do, sir, but they’re all off work now, and we don’t know who did. Well, he must have had a hunt for you, and not smelling you, come back to the foot o’ the shaft, and began to mount last thing, till he were close to the top, and then made a slip and got nipped. That’s how we think it was—eh, Harry?”“Yes, sir; that’s all I can make of it,” said Vores. “I was coming by here when the men were all up, and the engine was stopped, and I heard a yowling, and last of all made out that it was down the shaft here; and I fetched Master Hardock and we got the engine started, and I went and found the poor dog four steps down, just ready to lick my hand, but he couldn’t wag his tail, and that’s what makes me think he’s nipped.”But just then Grip moved his tail feebly, a mere ghost of a wag.“There!” cried Hardock, triumphantly; “see that? Why, if he’d been caught across the lines he’d have never wagged his tail again.”“Poor old Grip,” said Gwyn, tenderly; “that must have been it. He tried too much. Caught while coming up. Here, let’s look at your paw.”The boy tenderly took hold of the dog’s right paw, and he whined with pain, but made no resistance, only looked appealingly at his masters to let them examine the left leg.“Oh, there’s no doubt about it, Joe; both legs have been crushed.”Joe drew a low, hissing breath through his teeth.“It’s ’most a wonder as both legs warn’t chopped right off,” said Vores. “Better for him, pore chap, if they had been.”“Hadn’t we better put him out of his misery, sir?” said Hardock.“Out of his misery!” cried Gwyn, indignantly. “I should like to put you out of your misery.”“Nay, you don’t mean that, sir,” said the captain, with a chuckle.“Kill my dog!” cried Gwyn.“You’ll take his legs right off, won’t you, sir, with a sharp knife?” said Vores.“No, I won’t,” cried Gwyn, fiercely.“Better for him, sir,” said Vores. “They’d heal up then.”“But you can’t give a dog a pair of wooden legs, matey,” said Hardock, solemnly. “If you cuts off his front legs, you’d have to cut off his hind-legs to match. Well, he’d only be like one o’ them turnspitty dogs then; and it always seems to me a turnspitty to let such cripply things live.”“We must take him home, Joe,” said Gwyn, who did not seem to heed the words uttered by the men.“Yes,” said Joe. “Poor old chap!” and he bent down to softly stroke the dog’s head.“Better do it here, Master Gwyn,” said Hardock. “We’ll take him into the engine-house to the wood block. I know where the chopper’s kept.”“What!” cried Gwyn, in horror. “Oh, you wretch!”“Nay, sir, not me. It’s the kindest thing you can do to him. You needn’t come. Harry Vores’ll hold him to the block, and I’ll take off all four legs clean at one stroke and make a neat job of it, so as the wounds can heal.”Gwyn leaped to his feet, seized the basket from where it had been placed upon the floor, tilted it upside down, so that the fish flew out over to one side of the shed, and turned sharply to Joe,—“Catch hold!” he said, as he let the great basket down; and setting the example, he took hold of one end of the flannel couch on which poor Grip lay. Joe took the other, and together they lifted the dog carefully into the basket, where he subsided without a whine, his eyes seeming to say,—“Master knows best.”“I’ll carry him to the house, Mr Gwyn, sir,” said Vores.“No, thank you,” said the boy, shortly; “we can manage.”“Didn’t mean to offend you, sir,” said the man, apologetically. “Wanted to do what was best.”“Ay, sir, that we did,” said Hardock. “I’m afeard if you get binding up his legs, they’ll go all mortificatory and drop off; and a clear cut’s better than that, for if his legs mortify like, he’ll die. If they’re ampitated, he’ll bleed a bit, but he’ll soon get well.”“Thank you both,” said Gwyn, quietly. “I know you did not mean harm, but we can manage to get him right, I think. Come along, Joe.”They lifted the basket, one at each end, swinging the dog between them, and started off, Grip whining softly, but not attempting to move.“Shall we bring on the fish, sir?” shouted Hardock.“Bother the fish!” cried Gwyn. “No; take it yourselves.”
“Why don’t you speak?” cried Gwyn, angrily. “Has there been an accident? Surely father hasn’t gone down!”
“Oh, the Colonel’s all right, sir,” said Hardock, genially. “The gov’nor hasn’t gone and lost himself.”
“But there has been an accident, Sam,” cried Joe.
“Nor the Major aren’t gone down neither, sir,” said the man. “Here, let me carry that fish basket. Didn’t remember me with a couple o’ mullet, did you?”
“Yes, two of those are for you, Sam; but do speak out? What is wrong?”
“Something as you won’t like, sir. Your dog Grip’s gone down the mine.”
“What for? Thinks we’re there? Well, that’s nothing; he’ll soon find his way up. Why did they let him go down?”
“Couldn’t help it, sir,” said the man, slowly.
“What—he would go? I did miss him, Joe, when I went home. I remember now, we didn’t see him after we went to the mine. He must have missed us, and then thought we had gone down.”
“Sets one thinking of being lost and his coming after us,” said Joe, slowly. “Well, he can’t lose his way.”
“But how do you know he went down, Sam?” asked Gwyn, as they approached the mine.
“Harry Vores heerd him.”
“What, barking?”
“’Owlin’.”
“Oh, at the bottom of the shaft. Dull because no one was down. Then why did you suggest that there was an accident? You gave me quite a turn.”
“’Cause there was an accident, sir,” said Hardock, quietly; and he led the way into the great shed over the pit mouth, where all was very still.
Gwyn saw at a glance that something serious had happened to the dog, which was lying on a roughly-made bed composed of a miner’s flannel coat placed on the floor, beside which Harry Vores was kneeling; and as soon as the dog heard steps he raised his head, turned his eyes pitifully upon his master, and uttered a doleful howl.
“Why, Grip, old chap, what have you been doing?” cried Gwyn, excitedly.
“Don’t torment him, sir,” said Vores; “he’s badly hurt.”
“Where? Oh, Grip! Grip!” cried Gwyn, as he laid his hand on the dog’s head, while the poor beast whined dolefully, and made an effort to lick the hand that caressed him, as he gazed up at his master as if asking for sympathy and help.
“Both his fore-legs are broken, sir, and I’m afraid he’s got nipped across the loins as well.”
“Nay, nay, nay, Harry,” growled Hardock; “not him. If he had been he wouldn’t have yowled till you heerd him.”
“Nipped?” said Gwyn. “Then it wasn’t a fall?”
“Nay, sir; Harry Vores and me thinks he must ha’ missed you, and thought you’d gone down the mine, and waited his chance and jumped on to the up-and-down to go down himself.”
“Oh, but the dog wouldn’t have had sense enough to do that.”
“I dunno, sir. Grip’s got a wonderful lot o’ sense of his own! ’Member how he found you two young gents in the mine! Well, he’s seen how the men step on and off the up-and-down, and he’d know how to do it. He must, you know.”
“But some of the men would know,” said Gwyn.
“Dessay they do, sir, but they’re all off work now, and we don’t know who did. Well, he must have had a hunt for you, and not smelling you, come back to the foot o’ the shaft, and began to mount last thing, till he were close to the top, and then made a slip and got nipped. That’s how we think it was—eh, Harry?”
“Yes, sir; that’s all I can make of it,” said Vores. “I was coming by here when the men were all up, and the engine was stopped, and I heard a yowling, and last of all made out that it was down the shaft here; and I fetched Master Hardock and we got the engine started, and I went and found the poor dog four steps down, just ready to lick my hand, but he couldn’t wag his tail, and that’s what makes me think he’s nipped.”
But just then Grip moved his tail feebly, a mere ghost of a wag.
“There!” cried Hardock, triumphantly; “see that? Why, if he’d been caught across the lines he’d have never wagged his tail again.”
“Poor old Grip,” said Gwyn, tenderly; “that must have been it. He tried too much. Caught while coming up. Here, let’s look at your paw.”
The boy tenderly took hold of the dog’s right paw, and he whined with pain, but made no resistance, only looked appealingly at his masters to let them examine the left leg.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it, Joe; both legs have been crushed.”
Joe drew a low, hissing breath through his teeth.
“It’s ’most a wonder as both legs warn’t chopped right off,” said Vores. “Better for him, pore chap, if they had been.”
“Hadn’t we better put him out of his misery, sir?” said Hardock.
“Out of his misery!” cried Gwyn, indignantly. “I should like to put you out of your misery.”
“Nay, you don’t mean that, sir,” said the captain, with a chuckle.
“Kill my dog!” cried Gwyn.
“You’ll take his legs right off, won’t you, sir, with a sharp knife?” said Vores.
“No, I won’t,” cried Gwyn, fiercely.
“Better for him, sir,” said Vores. “They’d heal up then.”
“But you can’t give a dog a pair of wooden legs, matey,” said Hardock, solemnly. “If you cuts off his front legs, you’d have to cut off his hind-legs to match. Well, he’d only be like one o’ them turnspitty dogs then; and it always seems to me a turnspitty to let such cripply things live.”
“We must take him home, Joe,” said Gwyn, who did not seem to heed the words uttered by the men.
“Yes,” said Joe. “Poor old chap!” and he bent down to softly stroke the dog’s head.
“Better do it here, Master Gwyn,” said Hardock. “We’ll take him into the engine-house to the wood block. I know where the chopper’s kept.”
“What!” cried Gwyn, in horror. “Oh, you wretch!”
“Nay, sir, not me. It’s the kindest thing you can do to him. You needn’t come. Harry Vores’ll hold him to the block, and I’ll take off all four legs clean at one stroke and make a neat job of it, so as the wounds can heal.”
Gwyn leaped to his feet, seized the basket from where it had been placed upon the floor, tilted it upside down, so that the fish flew out over to one side of the shed, and turned sharply to Joe,—“Catch hold!” he said, as he let the great basket down; and setting the example, he took hold of one end of the flannel couch on which poor Grip lay. Joe took the other, and together they lifted the dog carefully into the basket, where he subsided without a whine, his eyes seeming to say,—
“Master knows best.”
“I’ll carry him to the house, Mr Gwyn, sir,” said Vores.
“No, thank you,” said the boy, shortly; “we can manage.”
“Didn’t mean to offend you, sir,” said the man, apologetically. “Wanted to do what was best.”
“Ay, sir, that we did,” said Hardock. “I’m afeard if you get binding up his legs, they’ll go all mortificatory and drop off; and a clear cut’s better than that, for if his legs mortify like, he’ll die. If they’re ampitated, he’ll bleed a bit, but he’ll soon get well.”
“Thank you both,” said Gwyn, quietly. “I know you did not mean harm, but we can manage to get him right, I think. Come along, Joe.”
They lifted the basket, one at each end, swinging the dog between them, and started off, Grip whining softly, but not attempting to move.
“Shall we bring on the fish, sir?” shouted Hardock.
“Bother the fish!” cried Gwyn. “No; take it yourselves.”
Chapter Forty.A Bit of Surgery.“Oh, Gwyn, my dear boy,” cried Mrs Pendarve, who was picking flowers for the supper-table as the boys came up to the gate, “what is the matter?”“Grip’s legs broken,” said the boy, abruptly. “Where’s father?”“In the vinery, my dear. What are you going to do? Let me see if—”“No, no, mother, we’ll manage,” said Gwyn; “come along, Joe.”They hurried down the garden, and up to where the sloping glass structure stood against the wall, from out of which came the sound of the Colonel’s manly voice, as he trolled out a warlike ditty in French, with a chorus of “Marchons! Marchons!” and at every word grapeshot fell to the ground, for the Colonel, in spite of the suggestions of war, was peacefully engaged, being seated on the top of a pair of steps thinning out the grapes which hung from the roof.“Here, father, quick!” cried Gwyn, as they entered the vinery.“Eh? Hullo! What’s the matter?”“Grip’s been on the man-engine and got his fore-legs crushed.”“Dear me! Poor old dog!” said the Colonel, descending from the ladder and sticking his long scissors like a dagger through the bottom button-hole of his coat. “Then we must play the part of surgeon, my boy. Not the first time, Joe. Clap the lid on the tank.”The wooden cover was placed upon the galvanised-iron soft-water tank, and poor Grip, who looked wistfully up in the Colonel’s eyes, was lifted out and laid carefully upon the top, while the Colonel took off his coat and turned up his sleeves in the most business-like manner.“I remember out at Bongay Wandoon, boys, after a sharp fight with a lot of fanatical Ghazis, who came up as I was alone with my company, we had ten poor fellows cut and hacked about and no surgeon within a couple of hundred miles, which meant up there in the mountains at least a week before we could get help. It was all so unexpected, no fighting being supposed to be possible, that I was regularly taken by surprise when the wretches had been driven off, and I found myself there with the ten poor fellows on my hands. I was only a young captain then, and I felt regularly knocked over; but, fortunately, I’d a good sergeant, and we went over to my lieutenant, who had been one of the first to go down. But he wouldn’t have a cut touched till the men had been seen to. I’m afraid my surgery was a very bungling affair, but the sergeant and I did our best, and we didn’t lose a patient. Our surgeon made sad fun of it all when he saw what we had done, and he snarled and found fault, and abused me to his heart’s content; but some time after he came and begged my pardon, and shook hands, and asked me to let him show me all he could in case I should ever be in such a fix again. Consequently, I often used to go and help him when we had men cut down. I liked learning, and it pleased the men, too, and taught me skill. Poor old dog, then; no snapping. The poor fellow’s legs are regularly crushed, as if he had been hit with an iron bar used like a scythe.”“Crushed in the man-engine, father,” said Gwyn.“Ah, yes, that must have done it. Well, Gwyn, my boy, a doctor would say here in a case like this—‘amputation. I can’t save the limbs.’”“Oh, father, it is so horrible!”“Yes, my boy, but you want to save the poor fellow’s life.”“Can’t anything be done, sir?” said Joe.“Humph! Well, we might try,” said the Colonel, as he tenderly manipulated the dog’s legs, the animal only whining softly, and seeming to understand that he was being properly treated. “Yes, we will try. Here, Joe Jollivet, go and ask Mrs Pendarve to give you about half-a-dozen yards of linen for a bandage, and bring back a big needle and thick thread.”“Yes, sir,” and Joe hurried out; but soon poked his head in again. “Don’t get it all done, sir, till I’ve come back. I want to see.”“Can’t till you come, boy. Off with you. Now, Gwyn, fill the watering-pot. I’ll lift the lid of the tank.”The pot was filled and the dog placed back again.“Now fetch that bag of plaster-of-Paris from the tool-house,” said the Colonel.This was soon done, and a portion of the white cement poured out into a flower-pot.“Is that good healing stuff, father?” asked Gwyn.“No, but it will help. Wait a bit, and you’ll see,” said the Colonel; and he once more softly felt the dog’s crushed and splintered legs, shaking his head gravely the while.“Don’t you think you can save his legs, father?” asked Gwyn.“I’m very much in doubt, my boy,” said the Colonel, knitting his brows; but dogs have so much healthy life in them, and heal up so rapidly, that we’ll try. Now, then, how long is that boy going to be with those bandages? Oh, here he is.Gwyn opened the door, and Joe hurried in.“Hah! that will do,” said the Colonel; and cutting off two pieces a yard long, he thrust them into the watering-pot, soaked them, wrung them out, and then rolled both in the flower-pot amongst the plaster-of-Paris.Then washing his hands, he took one of the injured legs, laid the broken bones in as good order as he could; and as Gwyn held the bandage ready, the leg was placed in it and bound round and round and drawn tight, the dog not so much as uttering a whimper, while after a few turns, the limp lump seemed to grow firmer. Then the bandaging was continued till all the wet linen was used, when the Colonel well covered the moist material with dry plaster, which was rapidly absorbed; and taking a piece of the dry bandage, thoroughly bound up the limb, threaded the big needle, and sewed the end of the linen firmly, and then the dog was turned right over for the other leg to be attacked.“Well, he is a good, patient beast,” said Gwyn, proudly. “But you don’t think he’s dying, do you, father?” he added anxiously.“Speak to him, and try,” said the Colonel.Gwyn spoke, and the dog responded by tapping the cistern lid with his tail very softly, and then whined piteously, for the Colonel in placing the splintered bones as straight as he could was inflicting a great deal of pain.“Can’t help it, Canis, my friend,” said the Colonel. “If you are to get better I want it to be with straight legs, and not to have you a miserable odd-legged cripple. There, I shall soon be done. That bandage is too dry, Gwyn; moisten it again. Wring it out. That’s right; now dip it in the plaster.”“What’s that for, sir?” said Joe, who was looking on eagerly.“What do you think?” replied the Colonel. “Now, Gwyn, right under, and hold it like a hammock while I lay the leg in. I’m obliged to hold it firmly to keep the bones in their places. Now, right over and tighten it. That’s it. Round again. Now go on. Round and round. Well done. Now I’ll finish. Well,” he continued, as he took the ends of the bandage and braced the dog’s leg firmly, “why do I use this nasty white plaster, Joe?”“Because it will set hard and stiff round the broken leg.”“Good boy,” said the Colonel, smiling, “take him up; Gwyn didn’t see that.”“Yes I did, father; but I didn’t like to bother you and speak.”“Then stop where you are, boy. Keep down, Joe; he behaved the better of the two. You are both right; the plaster and the linen will mould themselves as they dry to the shape of the dog’s legs, and if we can keep him from trying to walk and breaking the moulds, Nature may do the rest. At all events, we will try. When the linen is firm, I’ll bind splints of wood to them as well, so as to strengthen the plaster, though it is naturally very firm.”“It will be a job to keep him quiet, father,” said Gwyn.“I’m afraid so, my boy. Not, however, till the plaster sets; that cannot take very long, and we shall have to hold him down if it’s necessary; but I don’t think it will be. Poor fellow, he’ll very likely go to sleep.”As he spoke, the Colonel was busily employed finishing the bandaging, and when this was done he stood thinking, while the dog lay quiet enough, blinking at those who had been operating upon him.“We might secure his legs somehow,” said the Colonel, thoughtfully; “for all our success depends upon the next hour.”But Grip solved the difficulty by stretching himself out on one side with his bandaged legs together, and, closing his eyes, went off fast asleep, with the boys watching him—the Colonel having gone into the house, for it had turned too dark for him to go on grape-thinning long before the canine surgery was at an end.
“Oh, Gwyn, my dear boy,” cried Mrs Pendarve, who was picking flowers for the supper-table as the boys came up to the gate, “what is the matter?”
“Grip’s legs broken,” said the boy, abruptly. “Where’s father?”
“In the vinery, my dear. What are you going to do? Let me see if—”
“No, no, mother, we’ll manage,” said Gwyn; “come along, Joe.”
They hurried down the garden, and up to where the sloping glass structure stood against the wall, from out of which came the sound of the Colonel’s manly voice, as he trolled out a warlike ditty in French, with a chorus of “Marchons! Marchons!” and at every word grapeshot fell to the ground, for the Colonel, in spite of the suggestions of war, was peacefully engaged, being seated on the top of a pair of steps thinning out the grapes which hung from the roof.
“Here, father, quick!” cried Gwyn, as they entered the vinery.
“Eh? Hullo! What’s the matter?”
“Grip’s been on the man-engine and got his fore-legs crushed.”
“Dear me! Poor old dog!” said the Colonel, descending from the ladder and sticking his long scissors like a dagger through the bottom button-hole of his coat. “Then we must play the part of surgeon, my boy. Not the first time, Joe. Clap the lid on the tank.”
The wooden cover was placed upon the galvanised-iron soft-water tank, and poor Grip, who looked wistfully up in the Colonel’s eyes, was lifted out and laid carefully upon the top, while the Colonel took off his coat and turned up his sleeves in the most business-like manner.
“I remember out at Bongay Wandoon, boys, after a sharp fight with a lot of fanatical Ghazis, who came up as I was alone with my company, we had ten poor fellows cut and hacked about and no surgeon within a couple of hundred miles, which meant up there in the mountains at least a week before we could get help. It was all so unexpected, no fighting being supposed to be possible, that I was regularly taken by surprise when the wretches had been driven off, and I found myself there with the ten poor fellows on my hands. I was only a young captain then, and I felt regularly knocked over; but, fortunately, I’d a good sergeant, and we went over to my lieutenant, who had been one of the first to go down. But he wouldn’t have a cut touched till the men had been seen to. I’m afraid my surgery was a very bungling affair, but the sergeant and I did our best, and we didn’t lose a patient. Our surgeon made sad fun of it all when he saw what we had done, and he snarled and found fault, and abused me to his heart’s content; but some time after he came and begged my pardon, and shook hands, and asked me to let him show me all he could in case I should ever be in such a fix again. Consequently, I often used to go and help him when we had men cut down. I liked learning, and it pleased the men, too, and taught me skill. Poor old dog, then; no snapping. The poor fellow’s legs are regularly crushed, as if he had been hit with an iron bar used like a scythe.”
“Crushed in the man-engine, father,” said Gwyn.
“Ah, yes, that must have done it. Well, Gwyn, my boy, a doctor would say here in a case like this—‘amputation. I can’t save the limbs.’”
“Oh, father, it is so horrible!”
“Yes, my boy, but you want to save the poor fellow’s life.”
“Can’t anything be done, sir?” said Joe.
“Humph! Well, we might try,” said the Colonel, as he tenderly manipulated the dog’s legs, the animal only whining softly, and seeming to understand that he was being properly treated. “Yes, we will try. Here, Joe Jollivet, go and ask Mrs Pendarve to give you about half-a-dozen yards of linen for a bandage, and bring back a big needle and thick thread.”
“Yes, sir,” and Joe hurried out; but soon poked his head in again. “Don’t get it all done, sir, till I’ve come back. I want to see.”
“Can’t till you come, boy. Off with you. Now, Gwyn, fill the watering-pot. I’ll lift the lid of the tank.”
The pot was filled and the dog placed back again.
“Now fetch that bag of plaster-of-Paris from the tool-house,” said the Colonel.
This was soon done, and a portion of the white cement poured out into a flower-pot.
“Is that good healing stuff, father?” asked Gwyn.
“No, but it will help. Wait a bit, and you’ll see,” said the Colonel; and he once more softly felt the dog’s crushed and splintered legs, shaking his head gravely the while.
“Don’t you think you can save his legs, father?” asked Gwyn.
“I’m very much in doubt, my boy,” said the Colonel, knitting his brows; but dogs have so much healthy life in them, and heal up so rapidly, that we’ll try. Now, then, how long is that boy going to be with those bandages? Oh, here he is.
Gwyn opened the door, and Joe hurried in.
“Hah! that will do,” said the Colonel; and cutting off two pieces a yard long, he thrust them into the watering-pot, soaked them, wrung them out, and then rolled both in the flower-pot amongst the plaster-of-Paris.
Then washing his hands, he took one of the injured legs, laid the broken bones in as good order as he could; and as Gwyn held the bandage ready, the leg was placed in it and bound round and round and drawn tight, the dog not so much as uttering a whimper, while after a few turns, the limp lump seemed to grow firmer. Then the bandaging was continued till all the wet linen was used, when the Colonel well covered the moist material with dry plaster, which was rapidly absorbed; and taking a piece of the dry bandage, thoroughly bound up the limb, threaded the big needle, and sewed the end of the linen firmly, and then the dog was turned right over for the other leg to be attacked.
“Well, he is a good, patient beast,” said Gwyn, proudly. “But you don’t think he’s dying, do you, father?” he added anxiously.
“Speak to him, and try,” said the Colonel.
Gwyn spoke, and the dog responded by tapping the cistern lid with his tail very softly, and then whined piteously, for the Colonel in placing the splintered bones as straight as he could was inflicting a great deal of pain.
“Can’t help it, Canis, my friend,” said the Colonel. “If you are to get better I want it to be with straight legs, and not to have you a miserable odd-legged cripple. There, I shall soon be done. That bandage is too dry, Gwyn; moisten it again. Wring it out. That’s right; now dip it in the plaster.”
“What’s that for, sir?” said Joe, who was looking on eagerly.
“What do you think?” replied the Colonel. “Now, Gwyn, right under, and hold it like a hammock while I lay the leg in. I’m obliged to hold it firmly to keep the bones in their places. Now, right over and tighten it. That’s it. Round again. Now go on. Round and round. Well done. Now I’ll finish. Well,” he continued, as he took the ends of the bandage and braced the dog’s leg firmly, “why do I use this nasty white plaster, Joe?”
“Because it will set hard and stiff round the broken leg.”
“Good boy,” said the Colonel, smiling, “take him up; Gwyn didn’t see that.”
“Yes I did, father; but I didn’t like to bother you and speak.”
“Then stop where you are, boy. Keep down, Joe; he behaved the better of the two. You are both right; the plaster and the linen will mould themselves as they dry to the shape of the dog’s legs, and if we can keep him from trying to walk and breaking the moulds, Nature may do the rest. At all events, we will try. When the linen is firm, I’ll bind splints of wood to them as well, so as to strengthen the plaster, though it is naturally very firm.”
“It will be a job to keep him quiet, father,” said Gwyn.
“I’m afraid so, my boy. Not, however, till the plaster sets; that cannot take very long, and we shall have to hold him down if it’s necessary; but I don’t think it will be. Poor fellow, he’ll very likely go to sleep.”
As he spoke, the Colonel was busily employed finishing the bandaging, and when this was done he stood thinking, while the dog lay quiet enough, blinking at those who had been operating upon him.
“We might secure his legs somehow,” said the Colonel, thoughtfully; “for all our success depends upon the next hour.”
But Grip solved the difficulty by stretching himself out on one side with his bandaged legs together, and, closing his eyes, went off fast asleep, with the boys watching him—the Colonel having gone into the house, for it had turned too dark for him to go on grape-thinning long before the canine surgery was at an end.
Chapter Forty One.A Man’s Pursuits.The boys watched beside the dog till past ten o’clock, when the Colonel came in and examined the bandages.“Set quite hard,” he said, “and he’s sleeping fast enough. Nature always seems kind to injured animals. They curl up and go to sleep till they’re better.”“Then you think he’ll get better, sir?” said Joe.“Can’t say, my boy; but you had better be off home to bed.”“Yes, sir,” said Joe. “Coming part of the way with me, Gwyn?”Gwyn glanced at his father before saying yes, for he expected to hear an objection.But the Colonel’s attention was fixed upon the dog.“Let him sleep,” he said; “he’ll be all right here till morning.”“But if he stirs, he may fall off the cistern and hurt himself again, father.”“No fear, my boy. I don’t suppose he will attempt to move all night. There, off with you, Gwyn, if you are going part of the way.”The boys followed the Colonel out of the vinery, the door was shut, and the ascending lane leading to the Major’s house was soon reached, and then the rugged down.“Precious dark,” said Gwyn; but there was no answer. “Sleep, Jolly?” said Gwyn, after a few moments.“Eh? No; I was thinking. I say, though, how precious dark it is;” for they could not see a dozen yards.“Yes, but what were you thinking about?”“The dog.”“Oh, yes, of course, so was I; but what about him?” said Gwyn, sharply.“How he got hurt?”“Chopped in the man-engine. You heard.”“Yes, but I don’t believe it.”“Here’s a miserable unbeliever,” said Gwyn, mockingly. “How did he get hurt, then?”“Someone did it.”“Oh, nonsense! It isn’t likely. The machine did it, same as it would you or me if we weren’t careful.”“But that wasn’t how poor old Grip was hurt.”“How then?”“I feel sure he was hurt with an iron bar.”“Why, who would hurt him in that brutal way?”“Someone who hated him.”“Gammon!”“Very well—gammon, then. But when did we see him last?”“Last? Last? Oh, I know; when we went to the smelting-house to find Tom Dinass.”“Well, we left him behind there. The door must have swung-to and shut him in.”“Then you think Tom Dinass did it.”“Yes, I do.”“Then I say it’s all prejudice. Tom’s turning out a thoroughly good fellow. See how willing he was over the fishing, and how he helped us this evening. You’re always picking holes in Tom Dinass’s coat. What’s that?”A peculiar loud sneeze rang out suddenly from across the rough moorland to their right, where the blocks of granite lay thick.“Tom Dinass,” said Joe, in a whisper; and he stepped quickly behind a block of stone, Gwyn involuntarily following him. “That’s his way of sneezing,” whispered Joe. “What’s he doing over here to-night?”The boys stood there perfectly silent; and directly after there was a faint rustling, and the figure of a man was seen upon the higher ground against the skyline for a minute or so, as he passed them, crossing their track, and apparently making for the cliffs.Their view was indistinct, but the man seemed to be carrying something over his shoulder. Then he was gone.“Going congering,” said Gwyn. “He’s making for the way down the rocks, so as to get to the point.”“He wouldn’t go congering to-night,” said Joe. “We gave him as much fish as he’d want.”“Going for the sport of the thing.”“Down that dangerous way in the dark?”“I daresay he knows it all right, and it saves him from going round by the fishermen’s cottages—half-a-mile or more.”“’Tisn’t that,” said Joe.“What an obstinate old mule you are, Jolly,” cried Gwyn, impatiently; “you don’t like Tom Dinass, and everything he does makes you suspicious.”“Well, do you like him?”“No; but I don’t always go pecking at him and accusing him of smashing dogs’ legs with iron stoking-bars. It wouldn’t be a man who would do that; he’d be a regular monster.”“Let’s go and see what he’s after,” said Joe.“What, late like this in the dark?”“Yes; you’re not afraid are you? I want to know what he’s about. I’m sure he’s doing something queer.”“I’m not afraid to go anywhere where you go,” said Gwyn, stoutly; “but of all the suspicious old women that ever were, you’re getting about the worst.”“Come along, then.”“All right,” said Gwyn; “but if he finds us watching him throwing out a conger-line, he’ll break our legs with an iron bar and pitch us off the cliff.”“Yes, you may laugh,” said Joe, thoughtfully, “but I’m sure Tom Dinass is playing some game.”“Let’s go and play with him, then. Only make haste, because I must get back.”Joe led the way cautiously off to their left, in and out among the stones and patches of furze and bramble, till they neared the edge of the cliff, when they went more and more cautiously, till a jagged piece of crag stood up, showing where the precipice began; and to the left of this was the rather perilous way by which an active man could get down to the mass of tumbled rocks at the cliff foot, and from there walk right out on the western point which sheltered the cove from the fierce wind and waves.“All nonsense, Jolly,” whispered Gwyn after they had stood for a few moments gazing down at where the waves broke softly with a phosphorescent light. “I won’t go.”But as the boy spoke there was a loud clink from far below, as if an iron bar had struck against a stone, and the lad’s heart began to beat hard with excitement.Then all was silent again for nearly five minutes, and the darkness, the faint, pale, lambent light shed by the waves, and the silence, produced a strange shrinking sensation that was almost painful.“Shall we go down?” said Joe, in a whisper.“And break our necks? No, thank you. There, come back, he has only gone to set a line for conger.”“Hist!” whispered Joe, for at that moment, plainly heard, there came up to where they stood a peculiar thumping sound, as of a mason working with a tamping-iron upon stone.“Now,” whispered Joe. “What does he mean by that?”
The boys watched beside the dog till past ten o’clock, when the Colonel came in and examined the bandages.
“Set quite hard,” he said, “and he’s sleeping fast enough. Nature always seems kind to injured animals. They curl up and go to sleep till they’re better.”
“Then you think he’ll get better, sir?” said Joe.
“Can’t say, my boy; but you had better be off home to bed.”
“Yes, sir,” said Joe. “Coming part of the way with me, Gwyn?”
Gwyn glanced at his father before saying yes, for he expected to hear an objection.
But the Colonel’s attention was fixed upon the dog.
“Let him sleep,” he said; “he’ll be all right here till morning.”
“But if he stirs, he may fall off the cistern and hurt himself again, father.”
“No fear, my boy. I don’t suppose he will attempt to move all night. There, off with you, Gwyn, if you are going part of the way.”
The boys followed the Colonel out of the vinery, the door was shut, and the ascending lane leading to the Major’s house was soon reached, and then the rugged down.
“Precious dark,” said Gwyn; but there was no answer. “Sleep, Jolly?” said Gwyn, after a few moments.
“Eh? No; I was thinking. I say, though, how precious dark it is;” for they could not see a dozen yards.
“Yes, but what were you thinking about?”
“The dog.”
“Oh, yes, of course, so was I; but what about him?” said Gwyn, sharply.
“How he got hurt?”
“Chopped in the man-engine. You heard.”
“Yes, but I don’t believe it.”
“Here’s a miserable unbeliever,” said Gwyn, mockingly. “How did he get hurt, then?”
“Someone did it.”
“Oh, nonsense! It isn’t likely. The machine did it, same as it would you or me if we weren’t careful.”
“But that wasn’t how poor old Grip was hurt.”
“How then?”
“I feel sure he was hurt with an iron bar.”
“Why, who would hurt him in that brutal way?”
“Someone who hated him.”
“Gammon!”
“Very well—gammon, then. But when did we see him last?”
“Last? Last? Oh, I know; when we went to the smelting-house to find Tom Dinass.”
“Well, we left him behind there. The door must have swung-to and shut him in.”
“Then you think Tom Dinass did it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then I say it’s all prejudice. Tom’s turning out a thoroughly good fellow. See how willing he was over the fishing, and how he helped us this evening. You’re always picking holes in Tom Dinass’s coat. What’s that?”
A peculiar loud sneeze rang out suddenly from across the rough moorland to their right, where the blocks of granite lay thick.
“Tom Dinass,” said Joe, in a whisper; and he stepped quickly behind a block of stone, Gwyn involuntarily following him. “That’s his way of sneezing,” whispered Joe. “What’s he doing over here to-night?”
The boys stood there perfectly silent; and directly after there was a faint rustling, and the figure of a man was seen upon the higher ground against the skyline for a minute or so, as he passed them, crossing their track, and apparently making for the cliffs.
Their view was indistinct, but the man seemed to be carrying something over his shoulder. Then he was gone.
“Going congering,” said Gwyn. “He’s making for the way down the rocks, so as to get to the point.”
“He wouldn’t go congering to-night,” said Joe. “We gave him as much fish as he’d want.”
“Going for the sport of the thing.”
“Down that dangerous way in the dark?”
“I daresay he knows it all right, and it saves him from going round by the fishermen’s cottages—half-a-mile or more.”
“’Tisn’t that,” said Joe.
“What an obstinate old mule you are, Jolly,” cried Gwyn, impatiently; “you don’t like Tom Dinass, and everything he does makes you suspicious.”
“Well, do you like him?”
“No; but I don’t always go pecking at him and accusing him of smashing dogs’ legs with iron stoking-bars. It wouldn’t be a man who would do that; he’d be a regular monster.”
“Let’s go and see what he’s after,” said Joe.
“What, late like this in the dark?”
“Yes; you’re not afraid are you? I want to know what he’s about. I’m sure he’s doing something queer.”
“I’m not afraid to go anywhere where you go,” said Gwyn, stoutly; “but of all the suspicious old women that ever were, you’re getting about the worst.”
“Come along, then.”
“All right,” said Gwyn; “but if he finds us watching him throwing out a conger-line, he’ll break our legs with an iron bar and pitch us off the cliff.”
“Yes, you may laugh,” said Joe, thoughtfully, “but I’m sure Tom Dinass is playing some game.”
“Let’s go and play with him, then. Only make haste, because I must get back.”
Joe led the way cautiously off to their left, in and out among the stones and patches of furze and bramble, till they neared the edge of the cliff, when they went more and more cautiously, till a jagged piece of crag stood up, showing where the precipice began; and to the left of this was the rather perilous way by which an active man could get down to the mass of tumbled rocks at the cliff foot, and from there walk right out on the western point which sheltered the cove from the fierce wind and waves.
“All nonsense, Jolly,” whispered Gwyn after they had stood for a few moments gazing down at where the waves broke softly with a phosphorescent light. “I won’t go.”
But as the boy spoke there was a loud clink from far below, as if an iron bar had struck against a stone, and the lad’s heart began to beat hard with excitement.
Then all was silent again for nearly five minutes, and the darkness, the faint, pale, lambent light shed by the waves, and the silence, produced a strange shrinking sensation that was almost painful.
“Shall we go down?” said Joe, in a whisper.
“And break our necks? No, thank you. There, come back, he has only gone to set a line for conger.”
“Hist!” whispered Joe, for at that moment, plainly heard, there came up to where they stood a peculiar thumping sound, as of a mason working with a tamping-iron upon stone.
“Now,” whispered Joe. “What does he mean by that?”
Chapter Forty Two.Mining Matters.The boys stayed there some time listening to the clinking sound, and then, feeling obliged to go, they hurried away.“Tell you what,” said Gwyn, as they parted at last, “we’ll wait till he has gone down the mine to-morrow morning, and then either go by the cliff or round by the cove head, and see what he has been about. I say it’s a conger-line, and we may find one on.”“Perhaps so,” said Joe, thoughtfully. “Ydoll, old chap, I don’t like Tom Dinass.”“Nor I, neither. But what’s the matter now?”“I’m afraid he broke poor Grip’s legs.”“What? Nonsense! He wouldn’t be such a brute. No man would.”“Well, I hope not; but I can’t help thinking sometimes that he did. You see, the smelting-house door might have swung-to and shut him in with Dinass and he might have flown at him, and Dinass might have struck at him with one of the stoking-irons and broken his legs, and then been afraid and thrown him down the mine.”“And pigs might fly, but they’re very unlikely birds.”“Well, we shall see,” said Joe; and he hurried home to find his father asleep, while Gwyn, before going in, went on tiptoe to the vinery and crept in, to hear the dog snoring. Satisfied with this, he walked round the house fully prepared to receive a scolding for being so long, and feeling disposed to take refuge in the excuse that he had been to see the dog; but no lights were visible, everyone having retired to rest, the leaving of doors unfastened not being considered a matter of much moment at that secluded place.So Gwyn crept to bed unheard, and had no need to make a shuffling excuse, and slept late the next morning, to find at breakfast time his father had been out to the dog.“How is he? Oh, better than I expected to find him? He is not disposed to eat, only to sleep—and the best thing for him. The bandages are as hard as stone. Storm coming, I think, my dear.”“We must not complain,” said Mrs Pendarve. “We have had lovely weather.”“I don’t complain, and should not unless the waves washed up into the mine, and gave us a week’s pumping; but we should want monsters for that.”The Colonel was right, for there was nearly a month’s bad weather, during which the waves came thundering in all along the coast, and no fishing-boats went out; and as no opportunity occurred for getting down to the point, which was a wild chaos of foam, the strange behaviour of Tom Dinass was forgotten.There were busy days, too, in the mine, stolen from those passed in superintending the tremendous output of tin ore. The men worked below and above, and the Colonel and Major shook hands as they congratulated themselves upon their adventure, it being evident now that a year of such prosperity would nearly, if not quite, recoup them for their outlay in machinery, they having started without the terribly expensive task of sinking the mine through the rock. All that they had had to do was to pump out the first excavation, and then begin raising rich tin ore for crushing, washing, and smelting.The stolen days were devoted to making explorations and mapping out the mine. There were no more goings astray, for gallery after gallery was marked in paint or whitewash with arrows, so that by degrees most of the intricacies, which formed a gigantic network, were followed and marked, and in these explorations abundant proof was given of the enormous wealth waiting to be quarried out.There was no wonder felt now that those who had gone down first should have lost themselves.“Wonder to me is, Mr Gwyn,” said Hardock one day, “that we any on us come up again alive.”So they kept on exploring, and, well furnished with lights, the lads found the great hall with its pillars of quartz veined with tin, and strange passages going in different directions, far less horrible now. There was the gallery which dipped down too, one which they found their way to now from both ends. It looked gloomy and strange, with the whispering sounds of falling water and the reflections from the candles on the shining black surface; but knowledge had robbed it of its horrors.“Go through it again?” said Gwyn, as they stood looking along it; “to be sure I would, only I don’t want to get wet through for nothing. When we did wade through, Sam, one was always expecting to put one’s foot in a shaft or in a well, and go down, never to come up again.”“Ay, that would make you feel squirmy, sir.”“It did,” said Gwyn, laughing. “But, I say, wasn’t Grip a splendid old fellow? and how he knew! Fancy his swimming right along here!”“Ay, he is a dog,” said Sam. “How is he, sir?”“Oh, he’ll soon be out again; but father wants to keep him chained up till his bones are properly grown together.”“He’ll have to run dot and go one, I suppose, sir?”“What, lame?” cried Gwyn. “Very little, I think. We can’t tell yet, because his legs are stiff with so much bandaging. I say, Sam, you fall down the shaft and break your legs, and we’ll put ’em in plaster for you.”“No thank ye, sir,” said the man, grinning, as he stopped to snuff his candle with Nature’s own snuffers. “I never had no taste for breaking bones. Now, then, we’ll go round by a bit I come to one day, if you don’t mind a long walk back. Take us another two hours, but the floor’s even, and I want to have a look at it.”“What sort of a place is it?” said Gwyn; “anything worth seeing?”“Not much to see, sir, only it’s one of the spots where the old miners left off after going along to the west. Strikes me it’s quite the end that way. And I want to make sure that we’ve found one end of the old pit.”“Does the place seem worn out?” said Joe, who had been listening in silence.“That’s it, sir. Lode seems to have grown a bit narrower, and run up edge-wise like.”“Why, we went there,” said Joe, eagerly. “Don’t you remember, Ydoll?”“Yes, I remember now. I’d forgotten it, though. I say! Hark; you can hear quite a murmuring if you put your ear against the wall.”“Yes, sir, you can hear it plainly enough in several places.”“Don’t you remember, Ydoll, how we heard it when we were wet?”“Now you talk about it, I do, of course,” said Gwyn; “but, somehow, being down here as we were, I seemed to be stunned, and it has always been hard work to recollect all we went through. I’d forgotten lots of these galleries and pools and roofs, just as one forgets a dream, while, going through them again, they all seem to come back fresh and I know them as well as can be. But what makes this faint rumbling, Sam? Is it one of the little trucks rumbling along in the distance?”“No, sir,” said Hardock, with a chuckle. “What do you say it is, Master Joe?”The lad listened in silence for a few moments, and then said slowly,—“Well, if I didn’t know that it was impossible, I should say that we were listening to the waves breaking on the shore.”“It aren’t impossible, sir, and that’s what you’re doing,” said Hardock; and the boys started as if to make for the foot of the shaft.“What’s the matter,” said Hardock, chuckling. “’Fraid of its bursting through?”“I don’t know—yes,” said Gwyn. “What’s to prevent it?”“Solid rock overhead, sir. It’s lasted long enough, so I don’t see much to fear.”“But it sounds so horrible,” cried Joe, who suddenly found that the gallery in which they were standing felt suffocatingly hot.“Oh, it’s nothing when you’re used to it. There’s other mines bein’ worked right under the sea. There’s no danger so long as we don’t cut a hole through to let the water in; and we sha’n’t do that.”“But how thick is the rock over our heads?”“Can’t say, sir, but thick enough.”“But is it just over our heads here?”“Well, I should say it warn’t, sir; but I can’t quite tell, because it’s so deceiving. I’ve tried over and over to make it out, but one time it sounds loudest along there, another time in one of the other galleries. It’s just as it happens. Sound’s a very curious thing, as I’ve often noticed down a mine, for I’ve listened to the men driving holes in the rock to load for a blast, and it’s quite wonderful how you hear it sometimes in a gallery ever so far off, and how little when you’re close to. Come along. No fear of the water coming in, or I’d soon say let’s get to grass.”The boys did not feel much relieved, but they would not show their anxiety, and followed the mining captain with the pulsation of their hearts feeling a good deal heavier; and they went on for nearly an hour before they reached the spot familiar to them, one which recalled the difficulty they had had with Grip when he ran up the passage, and stood barking at the end, as if eager to show them that it was acul-de-sac.Hardock went right to the end, and spent some time examining the place before speaking.Then he began to point out the marks made by picks, hammers, and chisels, some of which were so high up that he declared that the miners must have had short ladders or platforms.“Ladders, I should say,” he muttered; “and the mining must have been stopped for some reason, because the lode aren’t broken off. There’s plenty of ore up there if we wanted it, and maybe we shall some day, but not just yet. There’s enough to be got to make your fathers rich men without going very far from the shaft foot; and all this shows me that it must have been very, very long ago, when people only got out the richest of the stuff, and left those who came after ’em to scrape all the rest. There, I think that will do for to-day.”The boys thought so, too, though they left this part rather reluctantly, for it was cooler, but the idea of going along through galleries which extended beneath the sea was anything but reassuring.That evening the Major came over to the cottage with his son, and the long visit of the boys underground during the day formed one of the topics chatted over, the Major seeming quite concerned.“I had no idea of this,” he said. “Highly dangerous. You had not been told, Pendarve, of course.”“No,” said the Colonel, smiling, “I had not been told; but I shrewdly suspected that this was the case, especially after hearing the faint murmuring sound in places.”“But we shall be having some catastrophe,” cried the Major—“the water breaking in.”The Colonel smiled.“I don’t think we need fear that. The galleries are all arch-roofed and cut through the solid rock, and, as far as I have seen, there has not been a single place where the curves have failed. If they have not broken in from the pressure of the millions of tons of rock overhead, why should they from the pressure of the water?”“Oh, but a leak might commence from filtration, and gradually increase in size,” said the Major.“Possibly, my dear boy,” replied the Colonel; “but water works slowly through stone, and for the next hundred years I don’t think any leakage could take place that we should not master with our pumping gear. Oh, absurd! There is no danger. Just try and think out how long this mine has been worked. I am quite ready to believe that it was left us by the ancient Britons who supplied the Phoenicians.”“May be, we cannot tell,” said the Major, warmly; “but you cannot deny that we found the mine full of water.”“No, and I grant that if we leave it alone for a hundred years it will be full again.”“From the sea?”“No; from filtration through the rock. The water we pumped out was fresh, not salt. There, my dear Jollivet, pray don’t raise a bugbear that might scare the men and make them nervous. They are bad enough with what they fancy about goblins and evil spirits haunting the mine. Even Hardock can’t quite divest himself of the idea that there is danger from gentry of that kind. Don’t introduce water-sprites as well.”The subject dropped; but that night, impressed as they had been by what they had heard, and partly from partaking too liberally of a late supper, both Gwyn and Joe had dreams about the sea breaking into and flooding the mine, Gwyn dreaming in addition that he behaved in a very gallant way. For he seemed to find the hole through which the water passed in, and stopped it by thrusting in his arm, which stuck fast, and, try how he would, he could not extricate it, but stood there with the water gradually stifling him, and preventing him from calling aloud for help.The heat and darkness at last rescued him from his perilous position—that is to say, he awoke to find himself lying upon his back with his face beneath the clothes; and these being thrown off, he saw that the morning sunshine was flooding the bedroom, and the memory of the troublous dream rapidly died away.
The boys stayed there some time listening to the clinking sound, and then, feeling obliged to go, they hurried away.
“Tell you what,” said Gwyn, as they parted at last, “we’ll wait till he has gone down the mine to-morrow morning, and then either go by the cliff or round by the cove head, and see what he has been about. I say it’s a conger-line, and we may find one on.”
“Perhaps so,” said Joe, thoughtfully. “Ydoll, old chap, I don’t like Tom Dinass.”
“Nor I, neither. But what’s the matter now?”
“I’m afraid he broke poor Grip’s legs.”
“What? Nonsense! He wouldn’t be such a brute. No man would.”
“Well, I hope not; but I can’t help thinking sometimes that he did. You see, the smelting-house door might have swung-to and shut him in with Dinass and he might have flown at him, and Dinass might have struck at him with one of the stoking-irons and broken his legs, and then been afraid and thrown him down the mine.”
“And pigs might fly, but they’re very unlikely birds.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Joe; and he hurried home to find his father asleep, while Gwyn, before going in, went on tiptoe to the vinery and crept in, to hear the dog snoring. Satisfied with this, he walked round the house fully prepared to receive a scolding for being so long, and feeling disposed to take refuge in the excuse that he had been to see the dog; but no lights were visible, everyone having retired to rest, the leaving of doors unfastened not being considered a matter of much moment at that secluded place.
So Gwyn crept to bed unheard, and had no need to make a shuffling excuse, and slept late the next morning, to find at breakfast time his father had been out to the dog.
“How is he? Oh, better than I expected to find him? He is not disposed to eat, only to sleep—and the best thing for him. The bandages are as hard as stone. Storm coming, I think, my dear.”
“We must not complain,” said Mrs Pendarve. “We have had lovely weather.”
“I don’t complain, and should not unless the waves washed up into the mine, and gave us a week’s pumping; but we should want monsters for that.”
The Colonel was right, for there was nearly a month’s bad weather, during which the waves came thundering in all along the coast, and no fishing-boats went out; and as no opportunity occurred for getting down to the point, which was a wild chaos of foam, the strange behaviour of Tom Dinass was forgotten.
There were busy days, too, in the mine, stolen from those passed in superintending the tremendous output of tin ore. The men worked below and above, and the Colonel and Major shook hands as they congratulated themselves upon their adventure, it being evident now that a year of such prosperity would nearly, if not quite, recoup them for their outlay in machinery, they having started without the terribly expensive task of sinking the mine through the rock. All that they had had to do was to pump out the first excavation, and then begin raising rich tin ore for crushing, washing, and smelting.
The stolen days were devoted to making explorations and mapping out the mine. There were no more goings astray, for gallery after gallery was marked in paint or whitewash with arrows, so that by degrees most of the intricacies, which formed a gigantic network, were followed and marked, and in these explorations abundant proof was given of the enormous wealth waiting to be quarried out.
There was no wonder felt now that those who had gone down first should have lost themselves.
“Wonder to me is, Mr Gwyn,” said Hardock one day, “that we any on us come up again alive.”
So they kept on exploring, and, well furnished with lights, the lads found the great hall with its pillars of quartz veined with tin, and strange passages going in different directions, far less horrible now. There was the gallery which dipped down too, one which they found their way to now from both ends. It looked gloomy and strange, with the whispering sounds of falling water and the reflections from the candles on the shining black surface; but knowledge had robbed it of its horrors.
“Go through it again?” said Gwyn, as they stood looking along it; “to be sure I would, only I don’t want to get wet through for nothing. When we did wade through, Sam, one was always expecting to put one’s foot in a shaft or in a well, and go down, never to come up again.”
“Ay, that would make you feel squirmy, sir.”
“It did,” said Gwyn, laughing. “But, I say, wasn’t Grip a splendid old fellow? and how he knew! Fancy his swimming right along here!”
“Ay, he is a dog,” said Sam. “How is he, sir?”
“Oh, he’ll soon be out again; but father wants to keep him chained up till his bones are properly grown together.”
“He’ll have to run dot and go one, I suppose, sir?”
“What, lame?” cried Gwyn. “Very little, I think. We can’t tell yet, because his legs are stiff with so much bandaging. I say, Sam, you fall down the shaft and break your legs, and we’ll put ’em in plaster for you.”
“No thank ye, sir,” said the man, grinning, as he stopped to snuff his candle with Nature’s own snuffers. “I never had no taste for breaking bones. Now, then, we’ll go round by a bit I come to one day, if you don’t mind a long walk back. Take us another two hours, but the floor’s even, and I want to have a look at it.”
“What sort of a place is it?” said Gwyn; “anything worth seeing?”
“Not much to see, sir, only it’s one of the spots where the old miners left off after going along to the west. Strikes me it’s quite the end that way. And I want to make sure that we’ve found one end of the old pit.”
“Does the place seem worn out?” said Joe, who had been listening in silence.
“That’s it, sir. Lode seems to have grown a bit narrower, and run up edge-wise like.”
“Why, we went there,” said Joe, eagerly. “Don’t you remember, Ydoll?”
“Yes, I remember now. I’d forgotten it, though. I say! Hark; you can hear quite a murmuring if you put your ear against the wall.”
“Yes, sir, you can hear it plainly enough in several places.”
“Don’t you remember, Ydoll, how we heard it when we were wet?”
“Now you talk about it, I do, of course,” said Gwyn; “but, somehow, being down here as we were, I seemed to be stunned, and it has always been hard work to recollect all we went through. I’d forgotten lots of these galleries and pools and roofs, just as one forgets a dream, while, going through them again, they all seem to come back fresh and I know them as well as can be. But what makes this faint rumbling, Sam? Is it one of the little trucks rumbling along in the distance?”
“No, sir,” said Hardock, with a chuckle. “What do you say it is, Master Joe?”
The lad listened in silence for a few moments, and then said slowly,—
“Well, if I didn’t know that it was impossible, I should say that we were listening to the waves breaking on the shore.”
“It aren’t impossible, sir, and that’s what you’re doing,” said Hardock; and the boys started as if to make for the foot of the shaft.
“What’s the matter,” said Hardock, chuckling. “’Fraid of its bursting through?”
“I don’t know—yes,” said Gwyn. “What’s to prevent it?”
“Solid rock overhead, sir. It’s lasted long enough, so I don’t see much to fear.”
“But it sounds so horrible,” cried Joe, who suddenly found that the gallery in which they were standing felt suffocatingly hot.
“Oh, it’s nothing when you’re used to it. There’s other mines bein’ worked right under the sea. There’s no danger so long as we don’t cut a hole through to let the water in; and we sha’n’t do that.”
“But how thick is the rock over our heads?”
“Can’t say, sir, but thick enough.”
“But is it just over our heads here?”
“Well, I should say it warn’t, sir; but I can’t quite tell, because it’s so deceiving. I’ve tried over and over to make it out, but one time it sounds loudest along there, another time in one of the other galleries. It’s just as it happens. Sound’s a very curious thing, as I’ve often noticed down a mine, for I’ve listened to the men driving holes in the rock to load for a blast, and it’s quite wonderful how you hear it sometimes in a gallery ever so far off, and how little when you’re close to. Come along. No fear of the water coming in, or I’d soon say let’s get to grass.”
The boys did not feel much relieved, but they would not show their anxiety, and followed the mining captain with the pulsation of their hearts feeling a good deal heavier; and they went on for nearly an hour before they reached the spot familiar to them, one which recalled the difficulty they had had with Grip when he ran up the passage, and stood barking at the end, as if eager to show them that it was acul-de-sac.
Hardock went right to the end, and spent some time examining the place before speaking.
Then he began to point out the marks made by picks, hammers, and chisels, some of which were so high up that he declared that the miners must have had short ladders or platforms.
“Ladders, I should say,” he muttered; “and the mining must have been stopped for some reason, because the lode aren’t broken off. There’s plenty of ore up there if we wanted it, and maybe we shall some day, but not just yet. There’s enough to be got to make your fathers rich men without going very far from the shaft foot; and all this shows me that it must have been very, very long ago, when people only got out the richest of the stuff, and left those who came after ’em to scrape all the rest. There, I think that will do for to-day.”
The boys thought so, too, though they left this part rather reluctantly, for it was cooler, but the idea of going along through galleries which extended beneath the sea was anything but reassuring.
That evening the Major came over to the cottage with his son, and the long visit of the boys underground during the day formed one of the topics chatted over, the Major seeming quite concerned.
“I had no idea of this,” he said. “Highly dangerous. You had not been told, Pendarve, of course.”
“No,” said the Colonel, smiling, “I had not been told; but I shrewdly suspected that this was the case, especially after hearing the faint murmuring sound in places.”
“But we shall be having some catastrophe,” cried the Major—“the water breaking in.”
The Colonel smiled.
“I don’t think we need fear that. The galleries are all arch-roofed and cut through the solid rock, and, as far as I have seen, there has not been a single place where the curves have failed. If they have not broken in from the pressure of the millions of tons of rock overhead, why should they from the pressure of the water?”
“Oh, but a leak might commence from filtration, and gradually increase in size,” said the Major.
“Possibly, my dear boy,” replied the Colonel; “but water works slowly through stone, and for the next hundred years I don’t think any leakage could take place that we should not master with our pumping gear. Oh, absurd! There is no danger. Just try and think out how long this mine has been worked. I am quite ready to believe that it was left us by the ancient Britons who supplied the Phoenicians.”
“May be, we cannot tell,” said the Major, warmly; “but you cannot deny that we found the mine full of water.”
“No, and I grant that if we leave it alone for a hundred years it will be full again.”
“From the sea?”
“No; from filtration through the rock. The water we pumped out was fresh, not salt. There, my dear Jollivet, pray don’t raise a bugbear that might scare the men and make them nervous. They are bad enough with what they fancy about goblins and evil spirits haunting the mine. Even Hardock can’t quite divest himself of the idea that there is danger from gentry of that kind. Don’t introduce water-sprites as well.”
The subject dropped; but that night, impressed as they had been by what they had heard, and partly from partaking too liberally of a late supper, both Gwyn and Joe had dreams about the sea breaking into and flooding the mine, Gwyn dreaming in addition that he behaved in a very gallant way. For he seemed to find the hole through which the water passed in, and stopped it by thrusting in his arm, which stuck fast, and, try how he would, he could not extricate it, but stood there with the water gradually stifling him, and preventing him from calling aloud for help.
The heat and darkness at last rescued him from his perilous position—that is to say, he awoke to find himself lying upon his back with his face beneath the clothes; and these being thrown off, he saw that the morning sunshine was flooding the bedroom, and the memory of the troublous dream rapidly died away.
Chapter Forty Three.After a Lapse.“That makes the fourth,” said Colonel Pendarve, tossing a letter across to his son in the office one morning when the mine was in full work; “four proposals from Mr Dix, and I have had three at intervals from that other legal luminary, Brownson. Seven applications to buy the mine in two years, Gwyn. Yes, it will be two years next week since we began mining, and in those two years you and Joe Jollivet have grown to be almost men—quite men in some respects, though you don’t shave yet.”“Yes, I do, father,” said Gwyn, smiling.“Humph!” ejaculated the Colonel, “then it’s an utter waste of time. There, answer that letter and say emphatically No.”The Colonel left the office, and Gwyn read the letter.“Look here, Joe,” he said; and Joe Jollivet, who had climbed up to six feet in the past two years, slowly rose from his table at the other side of the office, unfolding himself, as it were, like a carpenter’s double-hinged rule, and crossed to where Gwyn was seated with his table covered with correspondence.Joe read the letter, and threw it back.“Well,” he said, “it’s a pity they don’t sell it; but it’s the old story: father says ‘No,’ as he has started mining and it pays, he shall go on, so that I may succeed him.”“And Colonel Pendarve, ex-officer of cavalry and now half-proprietor of Ydoll Mine, says precisely the same on behalf of his fine, noble, handsome son Gwyn. Look here, Joe, why don’t you drop it, and swell out the other way?”“Going to begin that poor stuff again?” said Joe, sourly.“You make me. I declare I believe you’ve grown another inch in the night. What a jolly old cucumber you are! You’ll have to go on your knees next time you go down the mine.”“You answer your letter, and then I want to talk to you.”“What about?”“I’ll tell you directly you’ve written your letter. Get one piece of business out of your way at a time.”“Dear me; how methodical we are,” said Gwyn; but he began writing his answer, while, instead of going back to his table, Joe crossed to the hearthrug, where Grip was lying curled up asleep, and bending down slowly he patted the dog’s head and rubbed his ears, receiving an intelligent look in return, while the curly feathery tail rapped the rug.“There you are, Mr Lawyer Dix, Esquire,” said Gwyn, after dashing off the reply; “now, don’t bother us any more, for we are not going to sell—Hi! Grip, old man, rabbits!”The dog sprang to his feet uttered a sharp bark, and ran to the door before realising that it meant nothing; and then, without the sign of a limp, walked slowly back and lay down growling.“Ha, ha!” laughed Gwyn; “says ‘You’re not going to humbug me again like that,’ as plain as a dog can speak.”“Well, it’s too bad,” said Joe. “Think of the boy who cried ‘wolf.’ Some day when you want him he won’t come.”“Oh, yes, he will; Grip knows me. Come here, old man.”The dog sprang to him, rose on his hind-legs, and put his fore-paws on his master’s hands.“Only a game, was it, Grippy? You understand your master, don’t you?”The dog gave a joyous bark.“There; says he does.”“Don’t fool about, I want to talk to you,” said Joe, sternly.“All right, old lively. How was the governor this morning? You look as if you’d taken some of his physic by mistake. Now, Grip, how are your poor legs?”“Ahow–w–ow!” howled the dog, throwing up his muzzle and making a most dismal sound.“Feel the change in the weather?”A bark.“Do you, now? But they are quite strong again, aren’t they?”“How-how-ow-ow” yelped the dog.“Here, what made you begin talking about that?”“What? His broken legs?”“Yes.”“Pride, I suppose, in our cure. Or nonsense, just to tease the dog. He always begins to howl when I talk about his legs. Don’t you, Grip? Poor old cripple, then.”“Ahow!” yelped the dog.“Why did you ask?”“Because it seemed curious. I say, Gwyn, I believe I did that man an injustice.”“What man an injustice?” said Gwyn, who was pretending to tie the dog’s long silky ears in a knot across his eyes.“Tom Dinass.”The dog bounded from where he stood on his hind-legs resting on his master’s knees, and burst into a furious fit of barking.“Hark at him!” cried Gwyn. “Talk about dogs being intelligent animals? It’s wonderful. He never liked the fellow. Hi! Tom Dinass there. Did he break your legs, Grip?”The dog barked furiously, and ended with a savage growl.“Just like we are,” said Gwyn, “like some people, and hate others. I begin to think you were right, Joe, and he did do it.”“Oh, no—impossible!”“Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”“No, he has not,” said Joe, quietly. “He has been hanging about here ever since he left six months ago.”“What! I’ve never seen him.”“I have, and he has spoken to me over and over again.”“Why, you never told me.”“No, but I thought a good deal about it.”“What did he say to you?”“That it was very hard for a man who had done his best for the mine to be turned away all of a sudden just because Sam Hardock and the fellows hated him.”“He wouldn’t have been turned away for that. But as father said, when a man strikes his superior officer he must be punished, or there would be no discipline in a corps.”“I daresay Sam Hardock exasperated him first.”“Well, you often exasperate me, Jolly, but I don’t take up a miner’s hammer and knock you down.”“No,” said Joe, thinking in a pensive way; “you’re a good patient fellow. But he said it was very hard for a man to be thrown out of work for six months for getting in a bit of temper.”“Bit of temper, indeed! I should think it was! I tell you it was murderous! Why don’t he go and get taken on at some other mine? There are plenty in Cornwall, and he’s a good workman. Let him go where he isn’t known, and not hang about here.”“He says he has tried, and he wants to come back.”“And you and me to put up a petition for him!”“Yes, that’s it.”“Then we just won’t—will we, Grip? We don’t want any Tom Dinass here, do we?”The dog growled furiously.“Don’t set the dog against him, Ydoll. I did accuse him of having done that, but he looked at me in a horrified way, and said I couldn’t know what I was saying, to charge him with such a thing. He said he’d sooner cut his hand off than injure a dog like that.”“And we don’t believe him, do we, Grip? Why, you’ve quite changed your colours, Jolly. You used to be all against him, and now you’re all for, and it’s I who go against him.”“But you don’t want to be unjust, Ydoll?”“Not a bit of it. I’m going to be always as just as Justice. There, let’s get to work again. I’ve a lot of letters to write.”“One minute, Ydoll. I want you to oblige me in something.”“If it’s to borrow tuppence, I can’t.”“Don’t be stupid. I’ve spoken to father about Tom Dinass.”The dog growled furiously.“There, you’ve set him off. Quiet, sir!” cried Gwyn.“It’s your doing. You worry the dog into barking like that. But look here; father said he did not like to see men idle, and that Dinass had been well punished, and he would consent if the Colonel agreed. So I want you to help me.”“I can’t, Jolly, really.”“Yes you can, and you must,” said Joe, glancing uneasily towards the door. “For I told him he might come and see the Colonel; and if we ask him, I’m sure he’ll give way. Say you’ll help me.”“I can’t, old man.”“Yes, you can, and will. Let’s be forgiving. I told him he might come and see you and talk to you as he did to me, and it’s just his time. Yes; there he is.”For there was a step at the outside, and Joe went quickly to the door.“Come in, Tom,” said Joe.The man, looking very much tattered and very humble, came in, hat in hand.“Mornin’, sir,” he said softly. Then his eyes seemed to lash fire, and with a savage look he threw out his arms, for with one furious growl the dog leaped at him, and fastened upon the roll of cotton neckerchief which was wrapped about his throat.
“That makes the fourth,” said Colonel Pendarve, tossing a letter across to his son in the office one morning when the mine was in full work; “four proposals from Mr Dix, and I have had three at intervals from that other legal luminary, Brownson. Seven applications to buy the mine in two years, Gwyn. Yes, it will be two years next week since we began mining, and in those two years you and Joe Jollivet have grown to be almost men—quite men in some respects, though you don’t shave yet.”
“Yes, I do, father,” said Gwyn, smiling.
“Humph!” ejaculated the Colonel, “then it’s an utter waste of time. There, answer that letter and say emphatically No.”
The Colonel left the office, and Gwyn read the letter.
“Look here, Joe,” he said; and Joe Jollivet, who had climbed up to six feet in the past two years, slowly rose from his table at the other side of the office, unfolding himself, as it were, like a carpenter’s double-hinged rule, and crossed to where Gwyn was seated with his table covered with correspondence.
Joe read the letter, and threw it back.
“Well,” he said, “it’s a pity they don’t sell it; but it’s the old story: father says ‘No,’ as he has started mining and it pays, he shall go on, so that I may succeed him.”
“And Colonel Pendarve, ex-officer of cavalry and now half-proprietor of Ydoll Mine, says precisely the same on behalf of his fine, noble, handsome son Gwyn. Look here, Joe, why don’t you drop it, and swell out the other way?”
“Going to begin that poor stuff again?” said Joe, sourly.
“You make me. I declare I believe you’ve grown another inch in the night. What a jolly old cucumber you are! You’ll have to go on your knees next time you go down the mine.”
“You answer your letter, and then I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I’ll tell you directly you’ve written your letter. Get one piece of business out of your way at a time.”
“Dear me; how methodical we are,” said Gwyn; but he began writing his answer, while, instead of going back to his table, Joe crossed to the hearthrug, where Grip was lying curled up asleep, and bending down slowly he patted the dog’s head and rubbed his ears, receiving an intelligent look in return, while the curly feathery tail rapped the rug.
“There you are, Mr Lawyer Dix, Esquire,” said Gwyn, after dashing off the reply; “now, don’t bother us any more, for we are not going to sell—Hi! Grip, old man, rabbits!”
The dog sprang to his feet uttered a sharp bark, and ran to the door before realising that it meant nothing; and then, without the sign of a limp, walked slowly back and lay down growling.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Gwyn; “says ‘You’re not going to humbug me again like that,’ as plain as a dog can speak.”
“Well, it’s too bad,” said Joe. “Think of the boy who cried ‘wolf.’ Some day when you want him he won’t come.”
“Oh, yes, he will; Grip knows me. Come here, old man.”
The dog sprang to him, rose on his hind-legs, and put his fore-paws on his master’s hands.
“Only a game, was it, Grippy? You understand your master, don’t you?”
The dog gave a joyous bark.
“There; says he does.”
“Don’t fool about, I want to talk to you,” said Joe, sternly.
“All right, old lively. How was the governor this morning? You look as if you’d taken some of his physic by mistake. Now, Grip, how are your poor legs?”
“Ahow–w–ow!” howled the dog, throwing up his muzzle and making a most dismal sound.
“Feel the change in the weather?”
A bark.
“Do you, now? But they are quite strong again, aren’t they?”
“How-how-ow-ow” yelped the dog.
“Here, what made you begin talking about that?”
“What? His broken legs?”
“Yes.”
“Pride, I suppose, in our cure. Or nonsense, just to tease the dog. He always begins to howl when I talk about his legs. Don’t you, Grip? Poor old cripple, then.”
“Ahow!” yelped the dog.
“Why did you ask?”
“Because it seemed curious. I say, Gwyn, I believe I did that man an injustice.”
“What man an injustice?” said Gwyn, who was pretending to tie the dog’s long silky ears in a knot across his eyes.
“Tom Dinass.”
The dog bounded from where he stood on his hind-legs resting on his master’s knees, and burst into a furious fit of barking.
“Hark at him!” cried Gwyn. “Talk about dogs being intelligent animals? It’s wonderful. He never liked the fellow. Hi! Tom Dinass there. Did he break your legs, Grip?”
The dog barked furiously, and ended with a savage growl.
“Just like we are,” said Gwyn, “like some people, and hate others. I begin to think you were right, Joe, and he did do it.”
“Oh, no—impossible!”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”
“No, he has not,” said Joe, quietly. “He has been hanging about here ever since he left six months ago.”
“What! I’ve never seen him.”
“I have, and he has spoken to me over and over again.”
“Why, you never told me.”
“No, but I thought a good deal about it.”
“What did he say to you?”
“That it was very hard for a man who had done his best for the mine to be turned away all of a sudden just because Sam Hardock and the fellows hated him.”
“He wouldn’t have been turned away for that. But as father said, when a man strikes his superior officer he must be punished, or there would be no discipline in a corps.”
“I daresay Sam Hardock exasperated him first.”
“Well, you often exasperate me, Jolly, but I don’t take up a miner’s hammer and knock you down.”
“No,” said Joe, thinking in a pensive way; “you’re a good patient fellow. But he said it was very hard for a man to be thrown out of work for six months for getting in a bit of temper.”
“Bit of temper, indeed! I should think it was! I tell you it was murderous! Why don’t he go and get taken on at some other mine? There are plenty in Cornwall, and he’s a good workman. Let him go where he isn’t known, and not hang about here.”
“He says he has tried, and he wants to come back.”
“And you and me to put up a petition for him!”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Then we just won’t—will we, Grip? We don’t want any Tom Dinass here, do we?”
The dog growled furiously.
“Don’t set the dog against him, Ydoll. I did accuse him of having done that, but he looked at me in a horrified way, and said I couldn’t know what I was saying, to charge him with such a thing. He said he’d sooner cut his hand off than injure a dog like that.”
“And we don’t believe him, do we, Grip? Why, you’ve quite changed your colours, Jolly. You used to be all against him, and now you’re all for, and it’s I who go against him.”
“But you don’t want to be unjust, Ydoll?”
“Not a bit of it. I’m going to be always as just as Justice. There, let’s get to work again. I’ve a lot of letters to write.”
“One minute, Ydoll. I want you to oblige me in something.”
“If it’s to borrow tuppence, I can’t.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’ve spoken to father about Tom Dinass.”
The dog growled furiously.
“There, you’ve set him off. Quiet, sir!” cried Gwyn.
“It’s your doing. You worry the dog into barking like that. But look here; father said he did not like to see men idle, and that Dinass had been well punished, and he would consent if the Colonel agreed. So I want you to help me.”
“I can’t, Jolly, really.”
“Yes you can, and you must,” said Joe, glancing uneasily towards the door. “For I told him he might come and see the Colonel; and if we ask him, I’m sure he’ll give way. Say you’ll help me.”
“I can’t, old man.”
“Yes, you can, and will. Let’s be forgiving. I told him he might come and see you and talk to you as he did to me, and it’s just his time. Yes; there he is.”
For there was a step at the outside, and Joe went quickly to the door.
“Come in, Tom,” said Joe.
The man, looking very much tattered and very humble, came in, hat in hand.
“Mornin’, sir,” he said softly. Then his eyes seemed to lash fire, and with a savage look he threw out his arms, for with one furious growl the dog leaped at him, and fastened upon the roll of cotton neckerchief which was wrapped about his throat.
Chapter Forty Four.Tom Dinass shows his Teeth.Gwyn sprang from his seat, dashed at the dog, and caught him by the collar.“Grip! Down!” he roared. “Let go—let—go!”He dragged at the furious beast, while Dinass wrenched himself away. Then there was a struggle, and Gwyn roared out,—“Open the door, Joe. Quick! I can’t hold him.”The door was flung open, and, with the dog fighting desperately to get free, Gwyn hung on to the collar, passed quickly, and dragged the dog after him right out of the office; then swung him round and round, turning himself as on a pivot, let go, and the animal went flying, while, before he could regain his feet, Gwyn had darted inside and banged-to the door, standing against it panting.“I don’t think you need want to come back here, Master Tom Dinass,” he cried.Bang!The dog had dashed himself at the door, and now stood barking furiously till his master ran to the window and opened it.“Go home, sir!” he roared; but the dog barked and bayed at him, raised his feet to the sill, and would have sprung in, had not Gwyn nearly closed the sash. “Go home, sir!” he shouted again; and after a few more furiously given orders, the dog’s anger burned less fiercely. He began to whine as if protesting, and finally, on receiving a blow from a walking cane thrust through the long slit between sash and window-sill, he uttered a piteous yelp, lowered his tail, and went off home.“Don’t seem to take to me somehow, Mr Gwyn, sir,” said the man. “The chaps used to set him again’ me.”“Are you hurt?”“No, I aren’t hurt, but I wonder he didn’t get it. Puts a man’s monkey up and makes him forget whose dorg it is.”“Look here, Tom Dinass,” said Gwyn, quickly. “Did you ever forget whose dog he was, and ill-use him?”“Me, Mr Gwyn, sir? Now is it likely?” protested the man.“Yes; very likely; he flew at you. Did you hurt him that time when he was found down the man-engine?”“Why, that’s what Mr Joe Jollivet said, sir, ever so long ago, and I telled him I’d sooner have cut off my right-hand. ’Taren’t likely as I’d do such a thing to a good young master’s dog.”“Now, no cant, sir, because I don’t believe in it. Look here, you’d better go somewhere else and get work.”“Can’t, sir,” said the man, bluntly; “and as for the dog, if you’ll let me come back and tell him it’s friends he’ll soon get used to me again. I seem to belong to this mine, and I couldn’t be happy nowheres else. Don’t say you won’t speak for a poor fellow, Mr Gwyn, sir. You know I always did my work, and I was always ready to row or pull at the net or do anything you young gen’lemen wanted me to do. It’s hard; sir—it is hard not to have a good word said for a poor man out o’ work. I know I hit at Sam Hardock, but any man would after the way he come at me.”“We’re not going to argue that,” said Gwyn, firmly; “perhaps there were faults on both sides; but I must say that I think you had better get work somewhere else.”“No good to try, sir. Some o’ the mines aren’t paying, and some on ’em’s not working at all. Ydoll’s in full fettle, and you want more men. Ask the guv’nors to take me on again, sir.”“Yes, do, Gwyn,” said Joe. “It must be very hard for a man to want work, and find that no one will give him a job.”“Hard, sir? That aren’t the word for it. Makes a man feel as if he’d like to jump off the cliff, so as to be out of his misery. Do ask ’em, sir, and I’ll never forget it. If I did wrong, I’ve paid dear for it. But no one can say I didn’t work hard to do good to the mine.”“Well, I’ll ask my father when he comes back to the office.”“Won’t you ask him now, sir?”“I don’t know where he is. And as for you, I should advise you not to go near my dog; I don’t want to hear that he has bitten you.”“Oh, he won’t bite me, sir, if you tell him not. We shall soon make friends. Do ask soon, and let me stop about to hear, and get out of my misery.”“You will not have to stop long, Tom Dinass,” said Gwyn, as a step outside was heard—the regular martial tread of the old soldier, who seemed to be so much out of place amongst all the mining business.“Yes; here comes the Colonel,” said Joe, quickly; and he went and opened the door to admit the stiff, upright, old officer.“Thank you, Jollivet,” he said. “Hallo! What does this man want?”“He has come with his humble petition, father, backed up by Joe Jollivet and by me, for him to be taken on again at the mine.”“No,” said the Colonel, frowning; “it’s impossible, my boy.”“Beg pardon, sir, don’t say that,” said the man.“I have said it, my man,” said the Colonel, firmly.“But you’ll think better of it, sir. I’ll work hard for you.”“No,” said the Colonel; “you had a fair chance here for doing well, and you failed. The men would be ready to strike if I took you on again.”“Oh, but you’ve no call to listen to what a lot of men says.”“I am bound to in a certain way, my man. You made yourself universally unpopular among them, and all that culminated in your savage assault upon the captain. Why, my good fellow, many a man has gone into penal servitude for less than that.”“Yes, sir, I know I hit him; but they was all again’ me.”“I cannot go into that,” said the Colonel.“Give him a trial, father,” said Gwyn, in answer to Joe’s appealing look.“Do, sir. I’ve been out o’ work a long time, and it’s precious hard.”“Go right away, and try somewhere else, my lad.”“I have, sir,” said Dinass, imploringly. “I served you well, sir, and I will again.”“I have no fault to find with your working, my man, but I cannot re-engage you.”“Do, sir; it’s for your good. Do take me on, sir. I want to do what’s right. It is for your good, sir, indeed.”The Colonel shook his head.“No; I cannot alter my decision, my man,” said the Colonel. “Do as I said: go right away and get work; but I know it is hard upon a man to be out of work and penniless. You are a good hand, and ought not to be without a job for long, so in remembrance of what you did—”“You’ll take me on, sir? I tell you it’s for your good.”“No,” said the Colonel, sternly. “Gwyn, give this man a sovereign for his present necessities, and for the next few weeks, while he is seeking work, he can apply here for help, and you can pay him a pound a week. That will do.”“Better do what I said, sir,” said Dinass, with a grim look, “I warn you.”“I said that will do, sir,” cried the Colonel, firmly. “Gwyn, my boy, pay him and let him go.”Joe’s chin dropped upon his chest, and he rested his hand upon the back of the nearest chair.Then he started and looked at the door wonderingly, for, scowling savagely, Tom Dinass stuck on his hat very much sidewise, and, without pausing to receive the money, strode out of the place and went right away.“Specimen of sturdy British independence,” said the Colonel, sternly. “I’m sorry, but he is not a man to have about the place. He is dangerous; and when it comes to covert threats of what he would do if not engaged, one feels that help is out of the question. Be the better for me if I engage him—means all the worse for me if I do not. There, it is not worth troubling about; but if he comes back for the money, when he has cooled down, let him have it.”“Yes, father,” said Gwyn, and he went on with his letters, but somehow, from time to time the thought of the man’s fierce manner came back to him, and he could not help thinking how unpleasant a man Dinass could be if he set himself up for an enemy.
Gwyn sprang from his seat, dashed at the dog, and caught him by the collar.
“Grip! Down!” he roared. “Let go—let—go!”
He dragged at the furious beast, while Dinass wrenched himself away. Then there was a struggle, and Gwyn roared out,—
“Open the door, Joe. Quick! I can’t hold him.”
The door was flung open, and, with the dog fighting desperately to get free, Gwyn hung on to the collar, passed quickly, and dragged the dog after him right out of the office; then swung him round and round, turning himself as on a pivot, let go, and the animal went flying, while, before he could regain his feet, Gwyn had darted inside and banged-to the door, standing against it panting.
“I don’t think you need want to come back here, Master Tom Dinass,” he cried.
Bang!
The dog had dashed himself at the door, and now stood barking furiously till his master ran to the window and opened it.
“Go home, sir!” he roared; but the dog barked and bayed at him, raised his feet to the sill, and would have sprung in, had not Gwyn nearly closed the sash. “Go home, sir!” he shouted again; and after a few more furiously given orders, the dog’s anger burned less fiercely. He began to whine as if protesting, and finally, on receiving a blow from a walking cane thrust through the long slit between sash and window-sill, he uttered a piteous yelp, lowered his tail, and went off home.
“Don’t seem to take to me somehow, Mr Gwyn, sir,” said the man. “The chaps used to set him again’ me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I aren’t hurt, but I wonder he didn’t get it. Puts a man’s monkey up and makes him forget whose dorg it is.”
“Look here, Tom Dinass,” said Gwyn, quickly. “Did you ever forget whose dog he was, and ill-use him?”
“Me, Mr Gwyn, sir? Now is it likely?” protested the man.
“Yes; very likely; he flew at you. Did you hurt him that time when he was found down the man-engine?”
“Why, that’s what Mr Joe Jollivet said, sir, ever so long ago, and I telled him I’d sooner have cut off my right-hand. ’Taren’t likely as I’d do such a thing to a good young master’s dog.”
“Now, no cant, sir, because I don’t believe in it. Look here, you’d better go somewhere else and get work.”
“Can’t, sir,” said the man, bluntly; “and as for the dog, if you’ll let me come back and tell him it’s friends he’ll soon get used to me again. I seem to belong to this mine, and I couldn’t be happy nowheres else. Don’t say you won’t speak for a poor fellow, Mr Gwyn, sir. You know I always did my work, and I was always ready to row or pull at the net or do anything you young gen’lemen wanted me to do. It’s hard; sir—it is hard not to have a good word said for a poor man out o’ work. I know I hit at Sam Hardock, but any man would after the way he come at me.”
“We’re not going to argue that,” said Gwyn, firmly; “perhaps there were faults on both sides; but I must say that I think you had better get work somewhere else.”
“No good to try, sir. Some o’ the mines aren’t paying, and some on ’em’s not working at all. Ydoll’s in full fettle, and you want more men. Ask the guv’nors to take me on again, sir.”
“Yes, do, Gwyn,” said Joe. “It must be very hard for a man to want work, and find that no one will give him a job.”
“Hard, sir? That aren’t the word for it. Makes a man feel as if he’d like to jump off the cliff, so as to be out of his misery. Do ask ’em, sir, and I’ll never forget it. If I did wrong, I’ve paid dear for it. But no one can say I didn’t work hard to do good to the mine.”
“Well, I’ll ask my father when he comes back to the office.”
“Won’t you ask him now, sir?”
“I don’t know where he is. And as for you, I should advise you not to go near my dog; I don’t want to hear that he has bitten you.”
“Oh, he won’t bite me, sir, if you tell him not. We shall soon make friends. Do ask soon, and let me stop about to hear, and get out of my misery.”
“You will not have to stop long, Tom Dinass,” said Gwyn, as a step outside was heard—the regular martial tread of the old soldier, who seemed to be so much out of place amongst all the mining business.
“Yes; here comes the Colonel,” said Joe, quickly; and he went and opened the door to admit the stiff, upright, old officer.
“Thank you, Jollivet,” he said. “Hallo! What does this man want?”
“He has come with his humble petition, father, backed up by Joe Jollivet and by me, for him to be taken on again at the mine.”
“No,” said the Colonel, frowning; “it’s impossible, my boy.”
“Beg pardon, sir, don’t say that,” said the man.
“I have said it, my man,” said the Colonel, firmly.
“But you’ll think better of it, sir. I’ll work hard for you.”
“No,” said the Colonel; “you had a fair chance here for doing well, and you failed. The men would be ready to strike if I took you on again.”
“Oh, but you’ve no call to listen to what a lot of men says.”
“I am bound to in a certain way, my man. You made yourself universally unpopular among them, and all that culminated in your savage assault upon the captain. Why, my good fellow, many a man has gone into penal servitude for less than that.”
“Yes, sir, I know I hit him; but they was all again’ me.”
“I cannot go into that,” said the Colonel.
“Give him a trial, father,” said Gwyn, in answer to Joe’s appealing look.
“Do, sir. I’ve been out o’ work a long time, and it’s precious hard.”
“Go right away, and try somewhere else, my lad.”
“I have, sir,” said Dinass, imploringly. “I served you well, sir, and I will again.”
“I have no fault to find with your working, my man, but I cannot re-engage you.”
“Do, sir; it’s for your good. Do take me on, sir. I want to do what’s right. It is for your good, sir, indeed.”
The Colonel shook his head.
“No; I cannot alter my decision, my man,” said the Colonel. “Do as I said: go right away and get work; but I know it is hard upon a man to be out of work and penniless. You are a good hand, and ought not to be without a job for long, so in remembrance of what you did—”
“You’ll take me on, sir? I tell you it’s for your good.”
“No,” said the Colonel, sternly. “Gwyn, give this man a sovereign for his present necessities, and for the next few weeks, while he is seeking work, he can apply here for help, and you can pay him a pound a week. That will do.”
“Better do what I said, sir,” said Dinass, with a grim look, “I warn you.”
“I said that will do, sir,” cried the Colonel, firmly. “Gwyn, my boy, pay him and let him go.”
Joe’s chin dropped upon his chest, and he rested his hand upon the back of the nearest chair.
Then he started and looked at the door wonderingly, for, scowling savagely, Tom Dinass stuck on his hat very much sidewise, and, without pausing to receive the money, strode out of the place and went right away.
“Specimen of sturdy British independence,” said the Colonel, sternly. “I’m sorry, but he is not a man to have about the place. He is dangerous; and when it comes to covert threats of what he would do if not engaged, one feels that help is out of the question. Be the better for me if I engage him—means all the worse for me if I do not. There, it is not worth troubling about; but if he comes back for the money, when he has cooled down, let him have it.”
“Yes, father,” said Gwyn, and he went on with his letters, but somehow, from time to time the thought of the man’s fierce manner came back to him, and he could not help thinking how unpleasant a man Dinass could be if he set himself up for an enemy.