The day was drawing towards noon. October was revelling in an
after-taste of summer, and smiled in broad glory over beach and sea.
A light breeze bore eastward a few fleecy clouds, and the waves
danced and murmured before its breath. Their salt scent was in
our nostrils, and the glitter of the sand in our eyes. Black and
sombre in the clear air, Dead Man's Rock rose in gloomy isolation
from the sea, while the sea-birds swept in glistening circles round
its summit. But what was that at its base?
Seemingly, a little knot of men stood at the water's edge. As we
drew nearer I could distinguish their forms but not their occupation,
for they stood in a circle, intent on some object in their midst
concealed from our view. Presently, however, they fell into a rough
line as though making for the archway to Ready-Money Cove. Something
they carried among them, and continually stooped over; but what it
was I could not see. Their pace was very slow, but they turned into
the arch and were disappearing, when I caught sight of the uncouth
little figure of Joe Roscorla among the last, and ran forward,
hailing him by name.
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