The Open Air 



Down went each fair bather as if hit with shot 

 from a Catling gun. Down she went, frantically, and 

 vainly grasping at a useless rope; down with water 

 driven into her nostrils, with a fragment, a tiny blade, 

 of seaweed forced into her throat, choking her; crush 

 on the hard pebbles, no feather bed, with the pressure 

 of a ton of water overhead, and the strange rushing 

 roar it makes in the ears. Down she went, and at 

 the same time was dragged head foremost, sideways, 

 anyhow, but dragged ground along on the bitter 

 pebbles some yards higher up the beach, each pebble 

 leaving its own particular bruise, and the suspended 

 sand filling the eyes. Then the wave left her, and 

 she awoke from the watery nightmare to the bright 

 sunlight, and the hissing foam as it subsided, prone 

 at full length, high and dry like a stranded wreck. 

 Perhaps her head had tapped the wheel of the machine 

 in a friendly way a sort of genial battering ram. 

 The defeat was a perfect rout; yet they recovered 

 position immediately. I fancy I did see one slip 

 limply to cover; but the main body rose manfully, 

 and picked their way with delicate feet on the hard, 

 hard stones back again to the water, again to meet 

 their inevitable fate. 



The white ankles of the blonde gleaming in the 

 sunshine were distinguishable, even at that distance, 

 from the flesh tint of the brunette beside her, and 

 these again from the swarthiness of still darker ankles, 

 which did not gleam, but had a subdued colour like 

 dead gold. The foam of a lesser wave ran up and 

 touched their feet submissively. Three young girls 

 in pink clustered together; one crouched with her 

 back to the sea and glanced over her timorous 

 shoulder. Another lesser wave ran up and left a 

 fringe of foam before them. I looked for a moment 



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