Now they sat waiting for its onsets. Now the gasp and dreadful struggle while the motion swept and sucked was scarcely done when on and fierce and fiercer yet again it came and shook them.
Now what happened—long in the telling—happened very quickly.
"It's the end—it's the end," Mr. Wriford sobbed—his gasps no more than sobbing as each snatch came. "God, God, it's the end!"
"Hell to the end!" cried Mr. Puddlebox fiercely and fiercely holding him. "Loony, there's nothing here to end us! Boy, do you mind that coastguard we passed early back? He walks here soon after daybreak, he told us, when this bloody tide is down. He'll help me carry you down. Boy, with your back in this niche here you're safe though the sea washes ever so. I'm going to leave you to it. Wedge in, boy."
He began to sidle away.
Fiercely the sweeping movement struck them, stopping Mr. Wriford's protest, driving him to the ledge's centre, all but carrying Mr. Puddlebox whence he clung.
He thrust Mr. Wriford against the niche and roughly tore his hand from Mr. Wriford's grasp.
"What are you doing?" Mr. Wriford cried. "Giving me your place—no, no—!"
Fiercely was answered: "Hell to giving my place! Not me, curse me! I'm going for safety, boy." He indicated the pulpit rock whose surface dryly upstood before them. "Easy to get on there. I'm going to swim there."
"You can't swim! No—you shall not—no!"