The
tide was dead low under the chalk cliffs, and the little wrinkled
waves grieved along the sands up the coast to Newhaven and
down the coast to long, grey Brighton, whose smoke trailed out
across the Channel.
They walked to The Gap, where the cliff is only a few feet high.
A windlass for hoisting shingle from the beach below stands at the
edge of it. The Coastguard cottages are a little farther on, and an
old ship's figurehead of a Turk in a turban stared at them over the wall.
'This time tomorrow we shall be at home, thank goodness,'
said Una. 'I hate the sea!'
'I believe it's all right in the middle,' said Dan. 'The edges are
the sorrowful parts.'
Cordery, the coastguard, came out of the cottage, levelled his
telescope at some fishing-boats, shut it with a click and walked
away. He grew smaller and smaller along the edge of the cliff,
where neat piles of white chalk every few yards show the path
even on the darkest night.
'Where's Cordery going?'said Una.
'Half-way to Newhaven,'said Dan. 'Then he'll meet the
Newhaven coastguard and turn back. He says if coastguards were done
away with, smuggling would start up at once.'
A voice on the beach under the cliff began to sing:
'The moon she shined on Telscombe Tye -
On Telscombe Tye at night it was -
She saw the smugglers riding by,
A very pretty sight it was!'
Feet scrabbled on the flinty path.
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