That same night Max fell fast asleep as soon as he was in bed, for never in his career had he used his muscles so much in one day.
His rest was dreamless, but he awoke as the turret clock struck six, and lay thinking.
It was a glorious morning, for his window was illumined by the sunshine, and he felt warm and comfortable, but all the same he shivered.
For a troublesome thought had come to him, and he lay quite sleepless now, listening for Kenneth’s step, feeling quite certain that before many minutes had passed the lad would be hammering at his door, and summoning him to come down and bathe.
He shuddered at the idea, for the thought of what he had passed through—the climb down to the cavern with its crystal cold water, the weed-hung rocks, and the plunge, and the way in which he had been given his first lesson in swimming—brought out the perspiration in a cold dew upon his brow.
“I will not go again,” he said to himself. “One ought to be half a fish to live in a place like this.”
The banging of a door and footsteps were heard.
“Here he comes!” muttered Max, and by an involuntary action he caught hold of the bedclothes and drew them tightly up to his chin.
No Kenneth.
The sun shone brightly, and he could picture the dazzling sheen of the waves as they rippled and flashed. He could picture, too, the golden-brown seaweed and the creamy-drab barnacles on the rocks which had felt so rough and strange to his bare feet.