He was coming to himself with a sore throat and a shiver. His bed was hard; the bed-clothes had slipped off. He tried to pull them round him. His groping hand found nothing but impossible lumps, and stuff that trickled between his fingers. Why was he naked? where was his night-shirt? and what was this small hard thing he clutched in his hand? With a puzzled frown he opened his eyes. Overhead rose a dim white wall, a thin curtain swaying before it. At first he took it for the white-washed wall of his attic at home, the lace-curtains at the head of the bed blowing in the wind. Then a slow-winged shadow, passing between him and the ceiling with puling cry, startled him to the truth. The memories surged back on him. He knew. That white wall sheer above him was the cliff; that swaying curtain was the mist; that passing shadow a sea-bird. The hard something he was clutching so jealously was the scent-bottle; this still thing at his side was-- The thought stabbed him awake. He sat up with a start. About him drifted a white and waving mist. It shrouded him, chilly as a winding-sheet. There was no shore, no sea--only a hiss and rustle in the silence; and this still thing at his feet. "Sir!" he gasped. The still thing did not answer him. The body leapt to his feet. He was alone; alone for ever in a blank universe where nothing was--but the still thing! A sodden heap of clothes caught his eye. Last night; he had doffed them, dripping as they were, and slept naked beside _that,_ his head pillowed on a chalk boulder. The huddle of clothes, sprawling there so unconcerned, comforted him. _They_ weren't afraid: _they_ took it calmly enough. Hang it! he was as good a man as they. And after all the old man was dead; and so long as he stayed dead the boy didn't mind. It was the chance of his coming to life again, of his stirring, winking an eye-lid, speaking, that he feared. At length he dared to look at the old man's face. A sand-fly was crawling on his nose. The boy sighed. He wasn't quite alone then: the fly was there, and the fly was alive. His courage returned to him with a leap. He flicked the fly off with joyful indignation. They knew no reverence, these beastly little beasts! The old man lay upon his back, a rusty stream running down his white shorts. The salt had dried in scurfy ridges on hair and face. His head had slipped off Kit's coat; the little tail of neat-tied hair peeped from beneath; the eyes, wide- open, stared skyward. Kit closed them; and the action cost him more than all his valours of the day before. Almost he expected to hear the old man's harsh voice-- "Now then!" The deed done, it seemed to the boy as if his action had eased the dead man. The look of strain on the set and yellowing face passed. The old man was tired: he had done with the world; he would shut his eyes for ever on it. The kind wrinkles, deep-puckered about his mouth, seemed to gather into a smile.