"And be sure to stick to the beach."
That far it was all right and clear-headed. But the word "beach" let us out.
"I'm a peach
Upon the beach,"
sings I, and there we were both off again until one or the other managed to grope his way back to common sense again. And sometimes we crow-hopped solemnly around and around the prostrate Schwartz like a pair of Injins.
But somehow we got our plan laid at last, slipped the coins into Schwartz's pocket, and said good-bye.
"Old socks, good-bye,
You bet I'll try,"
yelled Denton, and laughing fit to kill, danced off up the beach, and out into a sort of grey mist that shut off everything beyond a certain distance from me now.
So I kicked Schwartz, he felt in his pocket, threw a gold piece away, and "bought a little more walk."
My entire vision was fifty feet or so across. Beyond that was grey mist. Inside my circle I could see the sand quite plainly and Denton's footprints. If I moved a little to the left, the wash of the waters would lap under the edge of that grey curtain.
If I moved to the right, I came to cliffs. The nearer I drew to them, the farther up I could see, but I could never see to the top. It used to amuse me to move this area of consciousness about to see what I could find. Actual physical suffering was beginning to dull, and my head seemed to be getting clearer.