"End South Point, 27 feet," I remembered
that the clasp said. He measured it out to the end, and then,
digging with his heel a small hole in the sand, began to walk back
towards the rock, this time to the north side. And still I waited.
Again I could hear him searching for the mark--an old iron ring, once
used for mooring boats--and cursing because he could not find it.
After a minute or two, however, he came into sight again, drawing his
line now straight out from the cliff, due west. He was very slow,
and every now and then, as he bent over his task, would look swiftly
about him with a hunted air, and then set to work again. Still there
was no sight but the round moon overhead, the sparkling stretch of
sand, and the gleam of the waves as they broke in curving lines of
silver: no sound but the sigh of the night breeze.
Apparently his measurements were successful, for the tape led him
once more to the hole he had marked in the sand. He paused for a
moment or two, drew out the clasp, which shot out a sudden gleam as
he turned it in his hand, and consulted it carefully.
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