“Come on, Sam,” he said eagerly; “he’s going in for a swim.”
His friend moved to the edge of the cliff and looked over. A little heap of clothing lay just below him, and Dick was striding over the sands to the sea.
“Come on,” repeated the cook impatiently; “we’ve got the start.”
“I should laugh if somebody was to steal his clothes,” said Sam vindictively as he gazed at the garments.
“Be all right for us if they did,” said the cook; “we’d have plenty o’ time to look around this ’ere Piggott’s Bay then.” He glanced at Sam as he spoke, and read his horrible purpose in his eyes. “No, no!” he said hastily.
“Not steal ’em, cookie,” said Sam seductively, “only bury ’em under the shingle. I’ll toss you who does it.”
For sixty seconds the cook struggled gamely with the tempter.
“It’s just a bit of a joke, cook,” said Sam jovially. “Dick ’ud be the first to laugh at it hisself if it was somebody else’s clothes.” He spun a penny in the air, and covering it deftly, held it out to the cook.
“Heads!” said the latter softly.
“Tails!” said Sam cheerfully; “hurry up, cook.”