Waving to and fro, the water to his knees, he stretched both arms shoreward.
"Mother!" he wailed.
A shout answered him.
Some one was crashing down the shingle, racing across the sand, and plunging through the water towards him.
The boy began to titter.
"Come on, Kit! come on!" came a rousing voice. "Don't look behind you!
That's the style! Come on!"
What was this black splashing figure, sword in hand? Was it the Angel of Death in full regimentals? Surely he recognised the face beneath the shako?
"You aren't mother," the boy giggled, swaying.
A strong arm was round him; a body, firm and full of life, was pressed against his dying one; a voice, quickening as the Spring, was in his ear.
"Splendid, Kit! Well done indeed! Lean on me. Lots o time."