OLD DING-DONG'S REVENGE
Old Ding-dong lay at the foot of the cliff among the chalk boulders, his limp white legs glimmering in the twilight.
To Kit, kneeling at his side, it seemed that only the old man's slow blinking eyelids were alive. The horror of it thrilled the boy, and woke the woman in him. He was not repelled; he was drawn closer.
Taking off his coat, he rolled it, sopping as it was, and stuffed it beneath the other's head.
Propped so, the old man lay in the falling gloom, head quaintly cocked, and chin crushed down on his chest.
"Are you comfortable, sir?"
"Comforubble as a man can be that canna feel," the other grunted.
"My back's bruk. I'm dyin uppuds."
Stealthily the boy took the old man's hand in his. A faint tightening of the clay-cold fingers surprised him.
The dusk was falling fast. At their feet the sea still crashed uneasily.
Above them the cliff showed white. Under the moon one red star sparkled.
From out of the smoke they could hear the sound of oars and voices.
Boats were searching amid the wreckage.
"Ay, you may sarch," muttered the grim old man. "It's little you'll find but your own carpses."