the canoe was now in a part of the river which looked like a lagoon bounded on every side by sand-hills, and it had no visible outlet, nor was there any current. but every now and again air bubbles came up from the bottom, and at one place the water appeared to move in a circular direction. smith gave a stroke or two of his paddle, and the canoe came within the influence of this circle.

it moved slowly round and round. meantime the baker sat motionless with a fallen jaw; and even kitty seemed disturbed.

"what is it?" he asked at length.

"it's a river sink," said smith gloomily; "the water goes in the sand or under it."

"rot," cried the baker; "there must be a way out."

he took his paddle again, and made the canoe move fast. but behind each little mound of sand was only a bay. it was true there was no outlet.

"is this another billabong?" he cried.

but smith shook his head.

"this is a true river, but here is its sink," he answered. "it's not such an uncommon thing. there's one on the humboldt river in western america."

"and does it come up again?" asked the baker.

"how can i tell?" cried smith impatiently. "what are we to do?"

"and how the devil can i h'answer that?" said the baker.

they were again in the slow circle of the sinking water, moving slowly round and round.

"did you ever see anything like this, kitty?" asked smith; but the girl shook her head, and was silent.

"shove her into the sand," said smith. and he went ashore. he climbed with difficulty upon the highest dune, and looked west. presently he called to the others.

"come up and tell me what you can see, if you can see anything."

they ploughed their way through the sand, and stood by him, looking west.

"you, baker?" said smith.

and shading his eyes, the baker looked across the glaring, white, uneven plain, rolling in big sand waves, with here and there a few wattles upon its barren surface.

"there may be a bit of a bluish range out yonder, but i ain't sure," said he.

"you, kitty?" asked smith.

"there's a big tree, smith," said the girl.

and smith nodded.

"it stands by itself," he said, "and the trunk of it isn't to be seen. what shall we do, baker?"

but at the sight of the hideous thirst-land the baker was done.

"i guess i'm finished," he said. "i'd rather stay and die where there's water."

he sat down, and looked despairing for the first time. it made smith pluck up courage. it would never do for both to be down at once.

"cheer up, old man," he said. "i guess this river must come out again. it's not likely to go into the bowels of the earth. and that tree is not more than thirty miles away. we can do that easy."

"no water-bags," said the baker.

and smith sighed. if the sand were as heavy all the way they could hardly hope to do much more than a mile an hour. if they started at sundown or a little before, that would mean toiling through the night, only to reach it by the next night, if they had no other bad luck.

"we must try it," he said. "let's have the canoe up. it will give us a bit of shade. and we must start the moment the sun begins to go down."

they dragged the boat out of the water, and laying it bottom upmost, scooped some of the sand away on the south side. they could, at any rate, get shelter for their heads.

but kitty would not lie down. she asked the baker for his knife, and went away a little distance.

"she's after guanners," said the baker. but he was wrong.

she came back in half an hour, or even less, and dumped what looked like a particularly fat and shapeless 'possum down by him. he felt it, gave a cry of joy, and, catching hold of her, kissed her most violently.

"what's up?" said smith, withdrawing his head from his hole.

"what's up," said the baker deliriously, "why, this is up. mrs. mandeville is a darling, and cleverer than they make 'em. she's made a water-bag, smith."

"what?" said smith.

"she done it with the bloomin' old 'possum skin," cried the baker, hugging kitty still more violently; "ain't she a darlin'; just tying up the neck 'ole and three of 'is legs."

"kitty," said smith, "you're a genius, and have very likely saved our lives."

but he wondered why he had not thought of it himself. they started within an hour on their heavy and toilsome journey, as the hot sun went down a peculiar and bloody red. they had nothing to eat, and only about three quarts of water between them.

smith, taking his direction by the setting sun, led the way, and the others followed side by side. as soon as it became dark, a star served him as a compass till midnight.

the aspect of the sand desert in the darkness was one of peculiar desolation, and the fact that it rolled sufficiently to prevent them seeing fifty yards ahead, made them exercise caution even when caution appeared unnecessary. they could not tell whether some black-fellows who knew the country might not cross it occasionally, and they might possibly stumble upon them sleeping. but as the heavy hours passed, and the labour of merely lifting their feet became painful, their needless caution vanished. they went blindly, and hardly noticed the visible changes in the sky.

for now there was a cool, quick breeze springing from the north-west quarter, and in the low north-west were clouds.

just as the wind became strong enough to blow the sand in their teeth, it suddenly failed, and the air got hot and heavy once more. but it seemed hotter than it had been; the sweat poured from them and ran saltly upon their lips. and still the clouds grew in the north-west, until at last they suddenly obscured the star by which their leader steered. he stayed till the others joined him.

"rain," he said, pointing to the heavy cloud bank. and as he spoke forked lightning ran upon the clouds and split them wonderfully, opening intense and awful depths.

as the baker opened his mouth to speak, he heard a sound such as he had never heard before.

"listen!" he cried, "what is it?"

and smith stood still as he heard a roar which was not thunder nor loosed waters. it was the sound of a tornado in the desert, and he saw even in the dark a dun cloud low down, but close upon them. for as the distant thunder roared at last, another flash of lightning showed the white sand sea as in noon-day, and he beheld the desert rise.

"lie down!" he cried, and the next moment the wind swept over them with a roar, and the grit flew like fine shot, screaming, and they grasped at unstable sand, which fled from between their fingers, to hold to the moving earth. at last they grasped each other and waited as the sand piled about them, as if it was alive, and got into their eyes and their hair and their dry mouths. they could not speak, and if they could have spoken, their voices would have been swallowed up; they could not open their eyes, and if they could they would have seen no more than if they had lain drowning in a turbid flood. but there was no rain.

through the frightful uproar and the red blast there came now incredible and incessant flashes of lightning, which burnt into their brains even as they lay face down with closed eyes. and through the vast diapason of the organic storm were short splitting roars which shocked and half deafened them. they felt like blind beasts stricken of god in the wilderness; they were scapegoats for the crimes of things, and then they were nothing but struggling physical blots of mere suffering life. for the sand drifted upon them and covered them up. they struggled out of it, and were rolled over. they tore at each other for something to hold to.

they tore at each other for something to hold to.

and then as suddenly as it came, so suddenly the dry storm passed, and went howling across the wilderness in the chariot of the winds. for now, overhead, the stars were shining, and the moon was clear-cut and bright and splendid.

they rose out of the sand which had so nearly been their grave, and spat thick dust from their parched mouths.

"where's the water?" asked smith.

and kitty gave a cry.

"i've lost it," she said.

and their being half-blind gave them a horrible shock. for it lay at their very feet. the girl had held on to it until the very last gust.

"that was a close one," said the baker, "and now i 'ope we've done. the devil must have his finger in our pie. but after this we should get through."

"don't be too sanguine," said smith. but there he asked for something quite beyond his chum's strength. for the baker's remarks on the storm, and the desert, and their luck, were of an extremely sanguine nature; at least, his one adjective was.

and kitty, too, was about as badly frightened as she could be. though sand storms are not uncommon in the bush, yet she had never had such an experience as this. she clung closely to the baker when they resumed their interminable tramp.

"cheer up, old girl," said the east ender, "we'll be in the mile end road yet. i'll show you life."

and smith, for the first time in a week, burst into a shout of laughter.

"if smith can smile that way," said the baker, "there ain't nothing very wrong, not to say reely wrong. but when 'e bites that 'air moustache of 'is, and shuts 'is eyes, that's when i funk it, day or night. what's o'clock, smith?"

"it's five-and-twenty to three, by the clock on bow church," said smith.

"gahn," said the baker. and they went on through the sand in silence.

presently smith stopped.

"did you hear anything, baker?" he asked.

"distant thunder," said the baker.

"um," said smith, "i don't know."

but he walked on again.

"d'ye reely think we shall strike that bloomin' river agin, smith?" he asked.

"it's quite likely, baker. it's pretty sure to come out somewhere. and if this infernal desert ends at the tree yonder, it may be there."

"what kind of a tree is it?"

"a pine, i suppose," said smith, "one of the beautiful useful colonial pines."

"yes," cried the baker; "drive a tin tack into a board, and it splits from one end to the other. that's it. but i wish we was hout of this. and i'm as 'ungry as i can stick. how goes it, kitty, my girl?"

kitty came closer to him, and smiled.

"more thunder," said the baker, presently. and then he stopped. "smith, what's up? look at it; look."

and right ahead of them there was a great jet of sand. it rose in a cloud, and then died away. there was another low roar.

"what is it?" said smith to himself, and then he turned on the baker. "how should i know?"

when they came to the place where the jet was, they found nothing but a deeper hollow than usual.

"perhaps it's one of those whirlwinds, dust devils some call 'em," said the baker, whom the strange phenomenon had frightened.

but the dawn was growing up behind them like a magical golden mango plant, and the light gave him courage.

"we'll do it," he cried cheerfully. "and as for the bloomin' tree, i'm beginning to see it myself. let's take a spell, smith. i'm that tired i can 'ardly stir."

as smith was fearfully tired, too, he did not require much asking, and they sat down. and continually there was the sound of distant thunder. once it was not distant, but quite near, and the very desert trembled.

"can it be an earthquake?" asked smith. but he could not remember any happening in australia, and he dismissed the notion. he lay back on the sand, and half went to sleep.

presently the baker caught him by the shoulder.

"wake up, smith," he cried, in a curious voice so unlike his own that smith fairly jumped. "come, get out of this."

and he saw the baker ghastly pale.

"what's up?" he cried.

but mandeville was stumbling blindly up the dune towards kitty, who continually rose and fell again on a steep slope.

"come, or you're a dead man!" shrieked the baker, and smith ran.

but as he ran with labouring limbs, the sand ran down beneath him. he did not think, he could not, but it seemed to him that some black horror was behind, that he was in a nightmare in which he could make no progress. and looking up—yes, looking up, he said he saw the baker on the top, shouting madly, "come, come," and the man looked over and past him.

he made an incredible effort, and fell flat, but rose and leaped. as he fell again, the baker caught his hand.

"hold my feet, kitty," he cried, and the girl clutched his ankles.

the next moment smith was on the top, and looked back on a round pit about thirty yards across, which went down to a point at a rapidly increasing angle. and the sand perpetually ran down the side; he could see it moving; but still the pit deepened and deepened.

"what is it?" he gasped.

but the baker clutched him.

"come away," he said in a whisper. and just then there was a black mouth to the pit, a little funnel hole, which grew till it was big enough for ten men to drop through. and the sand drained over its edges into a bottomless chasm.