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. They were up to their
arm-pits now, and Jane was up to her chin.

'Look!' said the Phoenix. 'What are they pointing at?'

The children turned; and there, a little to the west was a head--a
head they knew, with a crooked cap upon it. It was the head of the
cook.

For some reason or other the savages had stopped at the water's
edge and were all talking at the top of their voices, and all were
pointing copper-coloured fingers, stiff with interest and
excitement, at the head of the cook.