“There!” he cried triumphantly. “Who can’t get in? Now then, where are these cracks?”
“Right up at the other end,” I cried; and he groped on into the narrower part, Bob and I looking into the slippery grotto-like place enjoying his slow cumbersome manner, and paying no heed to the fact that the tide had turned, and that already a little water had run into the little pool where we had baled.
“Found anything, Big!” we shouted, though he was only a couple of yards away.
“N–no. Nothing here. I’m going to try this other hole. Oh, I say, isn’t it deep?”
“Mind! Mind!” shrieked Bob, and Bigley scuffled back.
“What—what is it?” he panted.
“Ha-ha-ha-ha!” roared Bob. “Did he bite you?”
“What a shame!” grumbled Bigley in his gruff voice. “I didn’t try to scare you. I don’t care though. You won’t frighten me again.”
He crept back, and we could hear him grunting and panting.
“I say, it is deep,” he said. “I’ve got my arm in right to the shoulder and there’s nothing here. Stop a minute; here’s a crack round this corner where I can get my hand. It’s quite a big opening with water in it, and slippery things in the rock, and—Ugh!—oh!—ah!”