"The first words were the truth," said Gil, sharply, as his hand sought his belt; "the last were added to make me afraid to kill you, lest others should come and be aware of the deed. Abel Churr, you have learned a secret, and you must have known the risk." "But I'll never tell, and I'll never come again. I'll never help it to a soul, or say a word about the trade." "Never," said Gil in a low stern voice. It was quite dark now, and the gloom of the ravine seemed heavier than ever as Abel Churr, who felt that his end was near, wrenched himself slightly round to gaze shudderingly into the depths below; and then as he fancied that he saw the flash of a knife in Gil's disengaged hand, while the other held him tightly by the belt, he uttered a loud shriek, that was repeated from the rock in front, to die off in whispers as if the man condemned to death were already on his way to the unknown shore, and his voice could be heard farther and farther as he onward sped. Volume 1, Chapter XVI. HOW TOM CROFTLY HAD A HOLIDAY. The founder yielded one day to Tom Croftly's importunities and gave him a holiday, which also meant taking one for himself, and to thoroughly enjoy it they both got up early. Tom Croftly was first, reaching the Pool-house before it was light, and just as the blackbirds had begun to hunt in the damp corners for slugs and snails. It was quite an hour later before the founder joined him, to find Tom working away with the heavy old wheelbarrow and the manure-fork. "Hallo, Tom, you here?" said the founder, looking eastward, where the golden orange flecks told of the coming sun. "Here? Ay, been here this hour; most emptied the mixen, and got a brave girt bed made; but who's to work wi' such a tool as this?" and he held up the fork. "You, if you've any sense in your head," growled the founder, who was sleepy yet. "I've got some sense in my head," said Tom Croftly; "but no man can't work with a noo-fangled tool like that. I never see such a thing. It breaks a man's back. A fork ought to have three tines in it." "And I say it ought to have four," said the founder, tartly. "Why, as soon as you started to fork dry stuff with the other it all began to tumble through. That new four-tined fork holds it." "Ay, and 'most breaks a man's back," grumbled Tom Croftly. "Falls through? Why, of course it does. That's nat'ral, and as it should. It's the small as falls through, and you takes up all the crumbs after wi' a shovel. 'Taint like having a holiday to work wi' a tool like that." "There, get on," said the founder, "and don't grumble. Lend me the fork." He seized the implement, and loaded up the barrow easily and well, turning afterwards to his man, "There, you can't do better than that." "And where's your crumbs to finish off with at the top?" grumbled Tom Croftly. "We shan't get much of a cucumber-bed, you'll see." "Look here, Tom Croftly, if you're going to grumble like this, we'll go back to the foundry-work."