It was the sixth post. Six. He broke off a twig and divided it
into six pieces. These he arranged on the ground in front of
him. Six. He looked at the pond, counted up to the sixth post,
and murmured "six" to himself again. Then he looked down at his
twigs. One-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?"