Chapter Nineteen.
How Kenneth was too Rash.
Five days had passed—days of imprisonment, for one of the storms prophesied had come over the ocean from the far west, and there had been nothing to do but read, play chess and billiards, write letters, and—most interesting amusement of all to the London visitor—get up to an open window and watch the great dark waves come rolling in, to break with a noise like thunder, and deluge the rock with foam right up to the castle walls. Every now and then a huge roller would dash right into the bath cave, when there would be quite an explosion, and Max listened with a feeling of awe to the escape of the confined air, and wondered whether it would be possible for the place to be undermined, and the whole rock swept away.
“What!” cried Kenneth, when he broached the idea. “Nonsense! It has gone on like that for thousands of years. It’s jolly! Next time we bathe, there won’t be a scrap of weed left. The place will be regularly scoured out, and the bottom covered with soft shelly sand.”
The outlook was most dismal. All the glorious colours of sea, sky, and mountain were blotted out, and it was only at intervals, when the drifting rain-clouds lifted a little, that a glimpse could be seen of some island out at sea.
Boom, rush, roar. The wind whistled and yelled as it rattled past the windows, and at times the violence was so great that Max turned an inquiring look at his young host, as if to ask whether there was any danger.
“Like a sail to-day?” asked the latter.
“Sail? with the sea like this!”
“Well, I don’t think I should like it,” said Kenneth, laughing. “Tavvy says the boat was going adrift out in the bay, but he caught her in time. It’s quite rough even there. Here, let’s put on waterproofs, and go out.”