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‘Nearly had me that time, but I’ll beat the winds as I have done before. There’s some satisfaction in fighting a gale like this, but I’d sooner be doing it here than out at sea yonder.’

At last he reached the roadway, which he crossed, and then climbed up again towards the top of the rocks. As he made his way slowly the salt spray dashed into his face, and wetted him all over. He could hear the waves thundering against the rocks, and every roar was followed by a dense shower of spray. When he reached the top of the rocks the moon came out from behind a cloud, and shed a pale light on the scene.

Wal Jessop looked out to sea, and saw nothing but a black mass of tumultuous water and fierce waves chasing each other in mad sport. Then he looked down below and saw masses of foam tossed about and flung high into the air. He saw the great waves roll across the jutting rock, then dash furiously against the solid mass opposed to them, and cast up spray like a waterspout. This battle between the waves and the rocks had been going on for centuries, and would, he knew, continue for centuries more. The waves, constantly baffled and defeated, had to retreat, but they returned again and again to the charge, bringing up reinforcements from their mighty reserves, until at last the rocks seemed to give way inch by inch, and their jagged, worn fronts bore unmistakable testimony to the fierceness of the onslaught.