A linen sheet bad been flung out from one of the windows of the house on the beach, and flew loose and flapping in sign of distress.

“It looks as if they had gone mad in that house, to have waited so long for to declare theirselves, poor souls,” Mrs. Crickledon said, sighing.

She was assured right and left that signals had been seen before, and some one stated that the cook of Mr. Tinman, and also Mrs. Cavely, were on shore.

“It’s his furniture, poor man, he sticks to:  and nothing gets round the heart so!” resumed Mrs. Crickledon.  “There goes his bed-linen!”

The sheet was whirled and snapped away by the wind; distended doubled, like a flock of winter geese changeing alphabetical letters on the clouds, darted this way and that, and finally outspread on the waters breaking against Marine Parade.

“They cannot have thought there was positive danger in remaining,” said Annette.

“Mr. Tinman was waiting for the cheapest Insurance office,” a man remarked to Mrs. Crickledon.

“The least to pay is to the undertaker,” she replied, standing on tiptoe.  “And it’s to be hoped he ’ll pay more to-day.  If only those walls don’t fall and stop the chance of the boat to save him for more outlay, poor man!  What boats was on the beach last night, high up and over the ridge as they was, are planks by this time and only good for carpenters.”

“Half our town’s done for,” one old man said; and another followed him in a pious tone:  “From water we came and to water we go.”

They talked of ancient inroads of the sea, none so serious as this threatened to be for them.  The gallant solidity, of the house on the beach had withstood heavy gales:  it was a brave house.  Heaven be thanked, no fishing boats were out.  Chiefly well-to-do people would be the sufferers—­an exceptional case.  For it is the mysterious and unexplained dispensation that:  “Mostly heaven chastises we.”

A knot of excited gazers drew the rest of the field to them.  Mrs. Crickledon, on the edge of the crowd, reported what was doing to Annette and Miss Fellingham.  A boat had been launched from the town.  “Praise the Lord, there’s none but coastguard in it!” she exclaimed, and excused herself for having her heart on her husband.

Annette was as deeply thankful that her father was not in the boat.

They looked round and saw Herbert beside them.  Van Diemen was in the rear, panting, and straining his neck to catch sight of the boat now pulling fast across a tumbled sea to where Tinman himself was perceived, beckoning them wildly, half out of one of the windows.

“A pound apiece to those fellows, and two if they land Mart Tinman dry; I’ve promised it, and they’ll earn it.  Look at that!  Quick, you rascals!”

To the east a portion of the house had fallen, melted away.  Where it stood, just below the line of shingle, it was now like a structure wasting on a tormented submerged reef.  The whole line was given over to the waves.