Part 32 (1/2)

All he felt disposed to do was to turn himself into a young modern ascetic, p.r.i.c.k his legs well in going through the furze, and then take a little bark off his s.h.i.+ns in climbing twenty feet up on to the great monolith, and there sit and grump.

”Bother the dog, what a row he's making!” he muttered. ”I wish I hadn't brought him.”

Then his lips parted to shout to Grip to be quiet, but he did not utter the words, for he stopped short just as he neared the first stone of the circle, on hearing the dog begin to bark furiously again, and a savage voice roar loudly,--

”Get out, or I'll crush your head with this stone!”

CHAPTER TWENTY.

A DOUBTFUL ACQUAINTANCE.

Gwyn recognised the voice, and knew what was the matter, and his first aim was to make a rush to protect his dog from the crus.h.i.+ng blow which would probably be given him with one of the many weather-worn fragments of granite lying about among the great monoliths. But he was just where he could not make such a rush, for it would have been into a dense bed of gorse as high as himself, and forming a _chevaux de frise_ of millions of sharp thorns.

The next best plan was to shout loudly, ”You hurt my dog if you dare--”

though the man might dare, and cast the stone all the same.

But Gwyn did neither of these things, for another familiar voice rose from beyond the furze, crying loudly,--

”You let that dog alone! You touch him and I'll set him to worry you.

Once he gets his teeth into you, he won't let go. Here, Grip! Come to heel!”

”Well done, Joe!” muttered Gwyn, who felt that his dog was safe; and he ran to the end of the bank of p.r.i.c.kly growth, where there was an opening, and suddenly appeared upon the scene.

It was all just as he had pictured; there was Joe Jollivet, with Grip close to his legs, barking angrily and making short rushes, and there, a few yards away, stood the big, swarthy stranger who had been caught at the mine mouth, and whom Gwyn believed to have tampered with the furnace door, now standing with a big stone of eight or ten pounds' weight, ready to hurl at the dog if attacked.

”Here, you put down that stone,” cried Gwyn, angrily. ”How dare you threaten my dog!”

”Stone aren't yours,” said the man, tauntingly. ”This ground don't belong to you. Keep your mongrel cur quiet.”

”My dog wouldn't interfere with you if you let it alone.”

”Oh, it's your dog, is it?” said the man. ”Well, take him home and chain him up. I don't want to flatten his head, but I jolly soon will if he comes at me.”

”He couldn't hit Grip,” said Joe, maliciously, as he bent down to pat and encourage the dog. ”Set him at the fellow--he has no business here.”

”What!” cried the fellow, who looked a man of three or four-and-thirty, but talked like a boy of their own age. ”Much right here as you have.

You let me alone, and I'll let you alone. What business have you to set your beastly dog at me?”

”Who set him at you?” cried Joe. ”He only barked at you--he saw you were a stranger--and you picked up a stone, and that, of course, made him mad.”

”So would you pick up a stone, if a savage dog came at you. Look at him now, showing his sharp teeth. On'y wish I had his head screwed up in a carpenter's bench. I'd jolly soon get the pinchers and nip 'em all out.

He wouldn't have no more toothache while I knew him.”

”There, you be off,” said Gwyn, ”while your shoes are good.”

”Don't wear shoes, young 'un. Mine's boots.”

”You're after no good hanging about here.”