They climbed up the cliff to the young oak on the summit, and went to the edge. The firm sand bore them safely at the verge.
“It looks very deep,” said Bevis. “The sand goes down straight.”
“Fathomless,” said Mark. “Just think how awful. It ought to happen at night—pitch black! I know! Some savages ought to light a fire up here and guide us to destruction.”
“We could not scramble up this cliff out of the water—I mean if we have to swim.”
“Of course we shall have to swim, clinging to oars.”
“Then we must get round that corner, somehow.”
“The other side is all weeds; that wouldn’t do.”
“Very likely the waves would bang us against the cliff. Don’t you remember how Ulysses clung to the rock?”
“His hands were torn.”
“Nearly drowned.”