Anyway, we left a full meal there in the beanpot.
So without any further delay we set off up the ridge I had started to cross that morning.

Schwartz lagged, sulky as a muley cow, but we managed to keep him with us.

At the top of the ridge we took our bearings for the next deep bay.

Already we had made up our minds to stick to the sea-coast, both on account of the lower country over which to travel and the off chance of falling in with a fishing vessel.
Schwartz muttered something about its being too far even to the next bay, and wanted to sit down on a rock.

Denton didn't say anything, but he jerked Schwartz up by the collar so fiercely that the German gave it over and came along.
We dropped down into the gully, stumbled over the boulder wash, and began to toil in the ankle-deep sand of a little sage-brush flat this side of the next ascent.