two-three-four-five-six-seven. Seven! Was it seven? Or was that seventh bit of a twig an accidental bit which had been on the ground anyhow? Surely it was six! Had he said "six" to Antony? If so, Antony would remember, and it was all right. Six. He threw away the seventh twig and collected the other six together. Perhaps they would be safer in his pocket. Six. The height of a tall man—well, his own height. Six feet. Yes, that was the way to remember it. Feeling a little safer on the point, he began to wonder about the bag, and what Antony would say to it, and the possible depth of the water and of the mud at the bottom; and was still so wondering, and saying, "Good Lord, what a life!" to himself, when Antony reappeared.
Bill got up and came down the slope to meet him.
"Six," he said firmly. "Sixth post from the end."
"Good," smiled Antony. "Mine was the eighteenth—a little way past it."
"What did you go off for?"
"To see Cayley into bed."
"Is it all right?"
"Yes. Better hang your coat over the sixth post, and then we shall see it more easily. I'll put mine on the eighteenth. Are you going to undress here or in the boat?"
"Some here, and some in the boat. You're quite sure that you wouldn't like to do the diving yourself?"
"Quite, thanks."
