The path was a shorter cut to the beach than the creeper-covered way by which they had come, and almost directly they saw through the trees the shining blue-and-gold-and-opal of sand and sea.
'Stick to it,' cried Cyril, breathlessly.
They did stick to it; they tore down the sands--they could hear behind them as they ran the patter of feet which they knew, too well, were copper-coloured.
The sands were golden and opal-coloured--and BARE.

There were wreaths of tropic seaweed, there were rich tropic shells of the kind you would not buy in the Kentish Town Road under at least fifteen pence a pair.
There were turtles basking lumpily on the water's edge--but no cook, no clothes, and no carpet.
'On, on! Into the sea!' gasped Cyril.

'They MUST hate water.
I've--heard--savages always--dirty.' Their feet were splashing in the warm shallows before his breathless words were ended.

The calm baby-waves were easy to go through.

It is warm work running for your life in the tropics, and the coolness of the water was delicious.