Hank, picking up a water beaker and a cup, they moved off to the rock and put it between them and the sea.
Before taking shelter, Hank shaded his eyes and looked out to sea.
“It’ll take them near an hour to get in,” said he.
Half an hour passed and then the thirst began. Used as they were to the sun, they had never before experienced the ordeal of sitting still with the sun’s rays beating on them. Fortunately they wore panamas and the wind from the sea licked round the rock every little while, bringing a trace of coolness. Hank poured out the water and they drank in turn every now and then. He insisted on wetting Tommie’s head occasionally. They talked in whispers and scarcely at all, listening—listening—listening. Time passed, bringing gulls’ voices, the beat of the little waves on the beach, the silky whisper of the sand, then suddenly far away—
Rumble-tumble-tum-tum-tum.
The sound of an anchor chain running through a hawse pipe.
They looked at one another.
“That’s the killick,” murmured Hank. “It’s them right enough, they’ve come right in knowing the ground, they wouldn’t have been in so quick if they hadn’t been used to the place. Listen!” He had no need to tell them to listen.
Time passed and the beach talked but no sound came from the sea but the sound of the small waves.