"But you'll tell me. I won't say a word to a soul," I said.

"Well, I don't know. I'm not sure, but--"

Bigley paused, and looked round again before putting his lips close to my ear and whispering softly:

"I think he is."

"I'm sure of it," I whispered back; "and I know he goes out in his lugger to meet French boats and Dutch boats, and makes no end of money by smuggling."

"Who told you that?" whispered Bigley fiercely.

"n.o.body. It's what everybody says of him. They all say that he'll be caught and hanged some day for it--hung in chains; but of course I hope he won't, Big, because of you."

"It's all nonsense. It isn't true," said Bigley indignantly, "and those who talk that way are far more likely to be hung themselves. But I wish your father hadn't bought the Gap."

"I don't," I said. "He had a right to buy it if he liked, and I don't see what business it is of your father. Why don't he attend to his fishing?"

Bigley looked up at me sharply, to see if I had any hidden meaning.

"He does attend to his fishing," he said angrily; "and if he hadn't been attending to his fishing he wouldn't have been out in his boat that day, and saved you from being drowned."

I never liked Bigley half so well before as when he spoke up like that in defence of his father; but I was in a sour disappointed mood that day, because the holidays were over and I was going back to school, so I said something that was thoroughly ungenerous, and which I felt sorry for as I spoke.

"Yes, he saved us all from being drowned, I suppose," I said; "but he hadn't been fishing, for there were no fish in the boat."

"Just as if anybody could be sure of catching fish every time he went out," cried Bigley angrily. "There, you want to quarrel because you are miserable at having to go back to school, but I sha'n't. I hate it. Go and fall out with old Bob Chowne."

This made me feel angry and I drew away from him, for it was trying to make out that I was as quarrelsome as Bob Chowne delighted to be. But I felt so horribly in fault directly after that I went back to my place and sat by him in silence.

After a time the old carrier turned to us with a request that we would get out and give the horse a rest up the hill.

We all obeyed, two of us jumping out over the tail-board, the other by the front, and leaping off the shaft.

It was plain enough that the holidays were over, and that the joyous hearty spirit of the homeward-bound was there no more, for Bob Chowne took one side of the road in front of the horse, and the old carrier the other, while Bigley and I hung back behind and walked slowly after them on opposite sides after the fashion of those in front.

Then came the stopping of the cart, and mounting again and descending a couple more times, before we reached Barnstaple, dull, low-spirited, and ready to find about a score of boys just back, and looking as doleful as we did ourselves.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

OUR SILVER MINE.

School life has been so often narrated, that I am going to skip over mine, and make one stride from our return after Midsummer to Christmas, when we all went back home in a very different frame of mind.

The country looked very different to when we saw it last, but it was a mild balmy winter, with primroses and cuckoo-pints pushing in the valleys, and here and there a celandine pretending that spring had come.

The roads were dirty, but we thought little about them, for we knew that the sea-sh.o.r.e was always the same, and, if anything, more interesting in winter than in summer.

I was all eagerness to get home and see what had been done in the Gap, for my father in his rare letters had said very little about it.

Bigley was equally eager too. Six months had made a good deal of difference in him, for, young as he was, he seemed to be more manly and firm-looking, though to talk to he was just as boyish as ever, and never happier than when he was playing at some game.

He, too, was ready enough to talk about the Gap, and wonder what had been done.

"I hope your father has made friends with mine," he kept on saying as we drew nearer home. "It will be so awkward if they are out when you and I want to be in. Because we do, don't we?"

"Why, of course," I cried. "And it will be so awkward, won't it?"

"No," I said stoutly, "it won't make any difference; you and I are not going to fall out, so why should we worry about it? I say, look at Bob Chowne!"

Bigley turned, and there he was once more seated upon his box, right up on the big knot of the cord, just as if he liked to make himself uncomfortable. Then his elbows were on his knees and his chin was in his hands, as he stared straight before him from out of the tilt of the big cart.

"Why, what's the matter, Bob?" I said.

"Nothing."

"Why, there must be something or you wouldn't look like that. What is it?"

"Oh, I don't know; only that we're going home."

"Well, aren't you glad?"

"Glad? No, not I. What is there to be glad about? I haven't forgotten last holidays."

"What do you mean?" said Bigley and I in a breath.

"Oh, wasn't I always getting in rows, because you two fellows took me out and got me in trouble. I haven't forgotten about that old suit of clothes."

"But I say, Bob," I cried, "didn't you do your part of getting into trouble?"

"Oh, I don't know. Don't bother, I'm sick of it. I'm tired of being a boy. I wish I was a man."

"Nay, don't wish that," cried the old carrier, who had been hearing everything, though he had not spoken before. "Man, indeed! Why, aren't you all boys with everything you can wish for? How would you like to be a man and have to do nothing else every day but sit in this here cart, and go to and fro, to and fro, from year's end to year's end, and never no change?"

As we drew near the Bay Bob Chowne grew more fidgety and despondent, but we tried to cheer him up by making appointments to go fishing and exploring the sh.o.r.e; but my first intent was to run over to the Gap, and see what was going on there.

As the carrier's cart descended the hill and we came in sight of the cottage, I saw some one at the gate, and leaning out on one side I saw that it was my father and the doctor, but before I could say so there was a jerk which nearly threw me off, and I heard a familiar voice cry:

"There you are, then. Out with your box, lad. Here's Binnacle Bill come to carry it. How do, young gentlemen! Well, young doctor, I've got that rope's-ending saved up for you whenever you like to come."

Old Jonas did not offer to shake hands with either of us, but Bigley did after handing out his box.

"You'll come on to-morrow," he said quickly.

"Yes, we'll come," I said, answering for both; and I observed that old Jonas smiled grimly, though he did not speak.

Then Bob and I were alone and jogging down the zigzag road, traversing another five hundred yards before we reached our gate, where my father and the doctor were waiting for us.