Kit found himself on hands and knees, banged, dripping, dizzy, in a hiss and turmoil of waters. The backward sweep of the waves almost carried him with it. But his hands were in the shingle up to the wrist, anchoring him. The body of water passed him. A thousand tresses of foam reminding him of his Granny's hair swept across his fingers. He looked up. He was kneeling on a tiny strip of beach at the foot of the cliff. On his left sprawled the old Commander. His knees, cocked by the receding wave, swayed and toppled now; the legs wooden and dreadful as a dummy's. Kit crawled towards him. "Are you hurt, sir?" The old man answered nothing. His eyes were shut, his arms wide. He lay upon his back on the wet and running shingle, his white knee-breeches sodden and rusty with blood, the square chin heavenward. Another of those sleek green monsters stole towards them out of the smoke. In an agony the lad tried to drag the old man back under the cliff. He might as well have attempted to lift a cask of lead. "O, what shall I do?" wailed the boy to heaven. "Why, cut and run," answered the voice from earth. Then the wave was on them, swooping, worrying, white-toothed. Kit did his best. Kneeling behind the old man, he heaved him into a sitting position, and propped him there, as the tumult of waters sluiced about them. Over the limp legs, up the great chest, the wave swept greedily; but the badger-grey head stayed above the flood. Then the water withdrew, blind and baffled. Kit lowered the grey head. "Thank ee," grunted the old man, and seemed to sleep. Kit made no answer. He was watching the sea with dreadful anxiety. Was it coming up? Was it going down? Were there to be more of those smothering floods? If so, they were lost. He knew he could not lift again that leaden old man. No. The worst was over. A lesser wave swept towards them. It tossed those wooden legs, dreadfully sporting with them, and fled, snarling. The boy bent with thankful heart. "That's all, sir. It won't come again. It's the swell made by the explosion--not the tide." "Ah," said the other sleepily; and opened his eyes. Seaward hung a huge toad-stool of smoke. Out of the heart of it came the clash and cry of torn waters. All else was still, save for the scream of disturbed sea-birds. Through the frayed and drifting edge of the smoke could be seen the frigate and the spars of the privateer; and sticking out of the water, a jagged mizzen--all that was left of the little _Tremendous_. As his eye fell on the splintered stump the old Commander lifted a hand to his forehead. "Plucky little packet," he muttered. "Plucky little packet." CHAPTER XVIII OLD DING-DONG'S REVENGE Old Ding-dong lay at the foot of the cliff among the chalk boulders, his limp white legs glimmering in the twilight.