He lay there for a moment and
laughed till the spray, this time with a rush of green water
underneath, very nearly swept him from his place.
They were waving a lantern on the beach when he struggled again to
his feet.
He slipped the little packet down his clothes next to his skin, and
groped about to find the end of the line which Sir Henry and he had
fastened to a staple below the chains. Then he drew a long breath,
gripped the rope and shouted. A second or two later he was back in
the cauldron.
As they pulled him on to the beach, he had but one idea. Whatever
happened, he must not lose consciousness. The packet was still
there against the calf of his leg. It must be his own hands which
removed his clothes. It seemed to him that those few bronzed faces,
those half a dozen rude lanterns, had become magnified and multiplied
a hundredfold. It was an army of blue-jerseyed fishermen which
patted him on the back and welcomed him, lanterns like the stars
flashing everywhere around. He set his teeth and fought against the
buzzing in his ears. He tried to speak, and his voice sounded like
a weak, far away whisper.
"I am all right," he kept on saying.
Then he felt himself leaning on two brawny arms. His feet followed
the mesmeric influence of their movement. Was he going into the
clouds, he wondered? They stopped to open a gate, the gate leading
to the gardens of Mainsail Haul.
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