"Beer," flashed the boy.
"Sand, Little Chap—best Eastbourne sand."
The boy rippled off into low laughter.
The Parson, on hands and knees at the mouth of the drain, heard him and looked back. It was not quite his notion of how a dying should be conducted: still, they were both a bit mad, those two on the hill-side, both the poet-y kind, and so must be excused.
"Yes," said the Gentleman, "I think I had the best of you there."
"I think you had."
His comrade's courage warmed the boy's heart.
He had always associated a death-bed with drawn blinds, hushed voices, sniffling women on their knees and the like.
And here lay this long-limbed man on the grass in the evening, the night bending to kiss him, the sea hushed behind, making ready for the plunge with the high heart and twinkling humour of the lad running down the sands to bathe.
A little wind breathed on them chilly.