'That's better,' whispered Ken, as he dropped down into it. 'This ought to bring us out on the beach.'
The bottom was sun-baked mud and dry stones which, together, formed about as unpleasant a combination for walking over as could well be imagined, especially since it was absolutely necessary to move without a sound. Both were deeply grateful when at last the torrent bed widened, and they heard the lap of ripples on a beach.
'I feel like those old Greek Johnnies,' said Roy, 'the ones who'd been wandering for a year over there in Asia, and who chucked their helmets into the air and yelled when they saw the sea.'
'Well, don't try any tricks of that sort here, old man,' Ken answered dryly. 'Wait a jiffy. I'm going forward to get a squint at the beach.'
He crept away, bent double, and was gone for so long that Roy began to get uneasy. But at last he saw Ken stealing back.
'What luck?' he whispered.
'None,' Ken answered in a tone of bitter disappointment.
'What—no boats?'
'Plenty of boats, but there are men behind them. I don't know how many, but quite a lot. I don't even know whether they are troops. They are sitting about on the shingle, talking and smoking. Anyhow there are too many for us to tackle.'
Roy grunted. 'That's bad. But, see here, Ken, we've got to have a boat some way or other.'