Thick and brooding, the heavy grass bent and seemed to whisper mockingly in the wind.
“Garry!—where did Chick go?”
“Don—I don’t know! I can’t see!”
They ran forward while the light lasted.
The next flashes gave them light to get to the edge of the footway over the marsh. They stared toward the grass, the water, the bare and unrevealing planks.
Chick was not visible. Neither was his adversary.
Beyond the end of the planks the grass began again. Don dropped the mail pouch: Garry, his kit forgotten, deserted far behind them in the eel grass at the promontory end, ran across the planks. Into the hovel Don turned.
On the narrow, twisting path beyond the planks Garry searched, unable to see far because the grass stood so high.
In the hut, with wind roaring around it, Don strained his eyes to gain some truth from the upset table, the overturned lantern, the evidences of strife and of struggle that the lightning showed as its fire came leaping again through the doorway.
Quickly Garry retraced his steps to be met on the planking by Don.