“Then I comed fur to suggist that the purvisions and things a-top o’ the sandbank isn’t quite so safe as they might be.”
“True, Briant; I was just thinking of that as you came up. Go and see you make a tight job of it. Get Rokens to help you.”
Briant hurried off, and calling his friend, walked with him to the top of the sandbank, leaning heavily against the gale, and staggering as they went. The blast now whistled so that they could scarcely hear each other talk.
“We’ll be blowed right into the sea,” shouted Tim, as the two reached a pile of casks and cases.
“Sure, that’s me own belaif entirely,” roared his companion.
“What d’ye say to dig a hole and stick the things in it?” yelled Rokens.
“We’re not fit,” screamed Phil.
“Let’s try,” shrieked the other.
To this Briant replied by falling on his knees on the lee side of the goods, and digging with his hands in the sand most furiously. Tim Rokens followed his example, and the two worked like a couple of sea-moles (if such creatures exist) until a hole capable of holding several casks was formed. Into this they stowed all the biscuit casks and a few other articles, and covered them up with sand. The remainder they covered with tarpaulin, and threw sand and stones above it until the heap was almost buried out of sight. This accomplished, they staggered back to the hut as fast as they could.
Here they found everything snugly secured, and as the rocks effectually sheltered the spot from the gale, with the exception of an occasional eddying blast that drove the sand in their faces, they felt comparatively comfortable. Lighting their pipes, they sat down among their comrades to await the termination of the storm.