Hector raced off for his bicycle, and so on to the nearest cottage to borrow a spade.
The mental picture of the “man” and the sabre-toothed tiger met and clashed in his brain. If he was so certain of the man he must concede the tiger, given in to Rhoda and her later period. Unless—unless.... Suddenly he clapped his hands to his ears as though someone were shouting: his eyes closed, shutting out sight and sound. There was a tiger, he remembered—of course he remembered! And if he were there, others were there also—not one tiger, not one man, but tigers and men; both, both!
By the time he got back to where he had left his sister, the water was above her knees, the tide racing inwards.
They were not going to be done this time, however.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and their father was away from home. Rhoda went back and ordered the household with as much sobriety as possible; collected a supply of food and a couple of blankets—they had camped out before and there was nothing so very amazing in their behaviour—then returned to the shore, the shrine.
Hector was sitting at the edge of the water, staring fixedly, white as a sheet.
Rhoda collected driftwood and built a fire; almost fed him, for he took nothing but what was put into his hand.
“It will still be there, even if we go to sleep,” she said; then, “Anyhow, we’ll watch turn and turn about.”
But it was all of no use. The boy might lie down in his turn, but he still faced the sea with steady, staring eyes.
Soon after three he woke his sister, shaking her in a frenzy of impatience. Oh, these sleepers!