Mike said nothing, but went to the spot Vince had pointed out, scraped himself a hollow, sat down in it quietly, and dragged the sand round.
“Feels drying, like a cool towel, doesn’t it?” said Vince, as if there had been no words between them.
“You can put out the light,” said Mike, for answer.
“Hah, yes,” replied Vince, taking the lanthorn; “seems a pity, too. But we shan’t hurt here. Old Jarks won’t think we’re in so snug a spot.”
Out went the light, Vince closed and fastened the door, and then, settling himself in his sandy nest, he said quietly,—
“Now we shall have to wait for hours before we can start. What shall we do—tell stories?”
Mike made no reply.
“Well, he needn’t be so jolly sulky,” thought Vince. “I’m sure it’s the best thing to do.—Yes, what’s that?”
It was a hand stretched out of the darkness, and feeling for his till it could close over it in a tight, firm grip.
“I’m so sorry, Cinder, old chap,” came in a low, husky voice. “All this has made me feel half mad.”