Young Seth stood up to see, if he could, what had become of the others. But he was down flat again in a moment.
"I connot see nowt," he shouted.
"Are we safe here, Seth?"--as a vicious white arm came reaching up the slope at them.
"Tide's goin' down."
So they lay and waited, and it was good for Jim that night that his life on the flats had hardened him somewhat to the weather.
He was soaked to the bones, and the spindrift stung like a whip. But he was so utterly spent with his previous sickness that his heavy eyes closed, and he dozed into horrible nightmares and woke each time with a start and a sob.
And then he found himself warmer, and thought the gale had slackened; but it was young Seth's burly body lying between him and the wind, and he was drawn up close into young Seth's arms, and there he went fast asleep.
He woke at last into a sober gray light and a great stillness. The wind had dropped and the sea had fallen back behind its distant barriers. When he stretched and sat up he could see nothing but sand--endless stretches of brown sea-sand, with the dull gleam of water here and there.
He got on to his feet and felt his bones creak as if they wanted oiling, and young Seth stood up too and kicked his legs and arms about to take the kinks out.
"Where are we, Seth?" asked Jim, with a gasp.