But every minute or so one of us would catch on some
word, and then we'd trail off into rhymes and laughter and
repetition.
"Keep him going as long as you can," said Denton.
"Yes."
"And be sure to stick to the beach."
That far it was all right and clear-headed. But the word "beach"
let us out.
"I'm a peach
Upon the beach,"
sings I, and there we were both off again until one or the other
managed to grope his way back to common sense again. And
sometimes we crow-hopped solemnly around and around the prostrate
Schwartz like a pair of Injins.
But somehow we got our plan laid at last, slipped the coins into
Schwartz's pocket, and said good-bye.
"Old socks, good-bye,
You bet I'll try,"
yelled Denton, and laughing fit to kill, danced off up the beach,
and out into a sort of grey mist that shut off everything beyond
a certain distance from me now.
So I kicked Schwartz, he felt in his pocket, threw a gold piece
away, and "bought a little more walk."
My entire vision was fifty feet or so across. Beyond that was
grey mist. Inside my circle I could see the sand quite plainly
and Denton's footprints. If I moved a little to the left, the
wash of the waters would lap under the edge of that grey curtain.
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