We both turned round, and, to our intense astonishment, within five yards of us stood my Uncle Herbert.
Coatless, hatless, and clad only in a pair of trousers that were much too small for him, a grey shirt, and a pair of canvas shoes, he looked like a regular tramp, while a strip of linen bound round his forehead half concealed his features. Yet it was Uncle Herbert, sure enough, and we stood still in speechless surprise.
"Is that all you have to say to a fellow?" he exclaimed, wringing my father's hand.
"However, in the name of all that's wonderful, did you get here?" asked my father.
"Come ashore from the wreck, of course," he replied, speaking as if it were an everyday occurrence.
"I am afraid you are the only one who did so. Where did you get that rig-out?"
"At yonder cottage. They were awfully kind to me. But let's make for home, for I'm terribly tired, hungry, and knocked about. I'll tell you everything later on."
We began to ascend a steep, tree-fringed path that led up from Pridmouth Bay to the top of the cliffs, and I noticed that my uncle limped painfully. Without speaking a word, my father helped him over the stile, then, one on each side of him, we assisted his halting footsteps.
In this manner we slowly negotiated two fields; and at length came to a hollow, where a rifle-range is situated. Here the cliffs were not more than twenty feet in height, and the sea was sweeping over the exposed pathway. It was now broad daylight, though the sun was hidden by fleeting masses of cloud, and the wind still blew furiously, whistling through the barley and young shoots of corn.
"We shall never be able to get him up this next rise without assistance, Reggie," said my father, glancing at his wellnigh helpless brother. "Just run to the top of the cliff and see if any one is in sight."