"Mine's not going either. Well, let's see if we can find our camp.
Some grub wouldn't be bad. Only we've got to look out for that man."
"Which side shall we go down?" asked Frank, as they paused on the summit of the cliff.
"It's hard to decide," answered Andy. "Let's try this," and he motioned to the left.
Down they went, slipping and stumbling, pausing now and then to get their breaths, and again to speak of the terrible fate they had escaped.
"Don't mention it any more," begged Andy with a shudder. "I can't bear to think of that tide rising—rising all the while, and no way of getting out!"
"Lightning probably struck a place on where the earth was thinner than anywhere else made a hole, and the rain did the rest," was Frank's theory.
Drenched to the skin, covered with mud from the climb up the slope, tired and weary, the Racer boys stumbled on in the darkness. Sometimes they fell over huge boulders or were tripped on outcropping tree roots. But they did not halt until they were on the sandy beach, where the big waves were pounding. There, at least, the going was easier.
"Now, which way?" asked Andy, as they halted to rest.
"It's hard to say. Camp might lie in either direction, and it's too dark to see. I guess it doesn't make much difference. We'll come up to it by morning, anyhow, if we can keep going that long. Let's head off this way."
Frank started to circle the island shore to the right, and Andy followed. At times the rain would cease, and then it would begin its downpour again. The lightning was less frequent, but they did not need the flashes to guide them now.