“Let it be law as it is desired,” boomed the Reverend John. On which word they broke forward, hirpling over the unstable pebbles and stripping as they ran, till, when they touched the sands, they were as naked as God had made them, and as happy as He intended them to be.
It was half-flood—dead-smooth, except for the triple line of combers, a mile from wing to wing, that broke evenly with a sound of ripping canvas, while their sleek rear-guards formed up behind. One swam forth, trying to copy the roll, rise, and dig-out of the Reverend John’s side-stroke, and manœuvred to meet them so that they should crash on one’s head, when for an instant one glanced down arched perspectives of beryl, before all broke in fizzy, electric diamonds and the pulse of the main surge slung one towards the beach. From a good comber’s crest one was hove up almost to see Lundy on the horizon. In its long cream-streaked trough, when the top had turned over and gone on, one might be alone in mid-Atlantic. Either way it was divine. Then one capered on the sands till one dried off; retrieved scattered flannels, gave thanks in chorus to the Reverend John, and lazily trailed up to five-o’clock call-over, taken on the lower cricket field.
“Eight this week,” said Beetle, and thanked Heaven aloud.
“Bathing seems to have sapped your mind,” the Reverend John remarked. “Why did you do so vilely with the Augustans?”
“They are vile, Padre. So’s Lear.”
“The other two did all right, though.”
“I expect they’ve been swottin’,” Beetle grinned.
“I’ve expected that, too, in my time. But I want to hear about the ‘impassioned Diderot,’ please.”
“Oh, that was Howell, Padre. You mean when Diderot broke forth: ‘Richardson, thou singular genius’? He’d read it in the holidays somewhere.”
“I beg your pardon. Naturally, Taffy would read Diderot in the holidays. Well, I’m sorry I can’t lick you for this; but if any one ever finds out anything about it, you’ve only yourself to thank.”