"come," said the baker, "come!"

"where?" asked smith, with a sick heart.

and looking at his chum, he saw the horror in the poor fellow's face. for it was wrinkled and seamed, and the courage and hope, which had helped them both so often, had, for that time at least, left him utterly.

"i don't know," said the baker, and he caught smith's hand, and then let it go, and took hold of kitty, who was also the victim of extreme terror. the sight of the others broken down brought back strength to the older man.

"what are you scared of?" he cried contemptuously. "do you funk death so much, baker?"

"no," said the baker in a whisper, "but to go down into a pit, when one is asleep, oh, my gawd! it's 'orrible."

he kept glancing round him uneasily, and anxiety made him stare. he stamped on the loose sand.

"how did you notice it?" asked smith.

"i slid," said the baker, "and i saw the sand trickle and trickle. and we was on an 'ill when we lay down, but when i slid, we was in a sort of cup, smith. what was it, smith?"

but smith shook his head.

"let's come on," he said.

"where?" asked the baker. "smith, old man, i'm scared."

his shaking hands and his loosed lips bore witness to the truth of that.

"where?" said smith. "why, out of this, and as soon as we can. i'll go first."

and then he heard again the sound of distant thunder. or perhaps it was subterranean, for, once more in the hot morning light, they saw ahead of them big jets and spurts of dun sand thrown up against the sun, as though some strange beast blew blasts like the spouting of a whale in that dry sea. and with each dust spout the ground was shaken, and the sound was heard.

smith caught the baker muttering mixed prayers, half child-like entreaty to an anthropomorphous god, half savage blasphemy against a treacherous fetish. he remembered, with a smile, the old story of the sailor who prayed for help, and, as an inducement for the deity to assist him, said that he had never asked before, and wouldn't again. he turned and looked at kitty, who walked like one dazed. it had taken the courage out of her too.

they walked slowly towards the west, where the tall pine was now visible. beyond it was a low range of hills. but their progress was slow. they avoided every sand hollow, and wound in and out across the little ridges. if some sand went sliding from under him, the baker whimpered like a dreaming hound. and then they stopped again.

"a pit, a pit!" cried mandeville, with staring eyes, and they saw an open, black hole before them, crater-shaped and crumbling.

"god help us!" said smith. "shall we get off this before the night? be a man, baker. do you want to spend the night here, and be sucked down like sand in an hour-glass?"

"i'm coming," said the baker, gulping down his horror. "come, kitty."

but the sun would soon set. it shot level over the desert, and turned the pine, now some five miles away, into a black bar across the mouth of a furnace. then it touched the range, bit out a red gap, plunged, and left a red star on a blue crest for a moment, and died. the night came with a swing from the east of lucid stars, and a moon, with its horns turned westward, was sharply visible towards the north.

"come," said smith, "while there's a little light left."

he led the way as fast as he dared, and did not stop even when the last daylight was gone on the wings of the after-glow, for, on the whitish-red sand, the light of moon and stars showed the way almost as clearly as in the thin day of an arctic winter. yet every now and again there came the noise of subterranean thunder. he began to guess at its cause. if they could but get off that road of pits, it bade him hope.

yet now he, too, was so terribly fatigued that he could hardly lift his feet; every motion he made required resolution, and his eyelids dropped as he walked. the baker was in worse case physically, and only kitty held out. sleep, as heavy as that which takes men in deep frost, laid hold of mandeville; he rocked to and fro like a drunken man. he implored smith to stop.

"lemme sleep," and he pitched upon his face.

"wake him," said smith, and kitty lifted him on his feet.

"we are close to the edge of the sand," said the leader. "let's try a bit more."

he caught the baker by the hair; he wrenched his ear till it almost bled, and mandeville struck at him blindly. kitty cried out aloud in anger, and yet she understood. but at last they could not move. the baker lay down like a dead man, and kitty took him in her arms. she was asleep in a moment, and then a sudden dream caught the baker.

"the pits, the pits!" he shrieked, and again deep sleep had him, as smith smiled wanly and drifted into dreamland.

and in his dream he saw the desert, and under the desert the sunken riven which, for long generations had eaten away the foundations of the desert until the flat rocks and baked earth under the sand was supported by little columns that melted day by day. and he heard the columns give, and then the ruptured rocks cracked. there were distant sounds of thunder, and the huge tilted slabs threw sand into the air. down each rift, as through horrible funnel-holes, the sand fell which measured human lives. he saw himself slip; he heard the others cry. and then there was loud thunder in his dream, and the blown sand filled his mouth. he heard an awful scream, and woke with it in his ears.

"help, smith, help!"

he sprang to his feet, and saw a dark body, which was kitty, sliding on the flat in front of him towards a great cup, whose edge was within six feet. he threw himself down, and grasped the girl by her ankles, and, digging his toes into the sand, he wrenched her back.

but as he did so, she screamed dreadfully, and on her scream there came another further cry, half-choked, half dream-like—such a cry as a man would make in a nightmare, if he could free his chest form the horrible squat beast that chokes him. and kitty, whom he had saved, writhed round on him, and struck at him.

"let me go!" she screamed.

"where's baker?" he said.

and she writhed and shrieked terribly.

"the pit—in the pit!"

and rising, he saw the big, black cup which held death. kitty rose, too, and half escaped him. in another moment she would have been beyond help. he caught hold of her, and they fought upon the increasing verge of the slipping sand, which was like quicksand, and seemed to cling to them. but smith lifted her desperately, and ran ten yards, and, throwing her down, held her till the mad fit passed.

and shaking with horror, and sick at the loss of friend and lover, they sat there till dawn, with deep holes about them.

but kitty perpetually wailed for the man who was gone, and half she said was unintelligible to her companion. for now, not caring to be understood, she used the commoner talk of the brodarro, which was mixed strangely with fragments of many aboriginal dialects.

"my man is gone," she cried; "my little man who was strong and brave."

yes, the baker was gone; gone without a farewell, without a handshake, and his good-bye was a terrible shriek, which still rang in smith's ears. perhaps those who were left would now escape, but all the joy was gone out of him at the loss of his faithful companion, whose courage was proof against any natural horror, and only failed in dangers which appeared ghastly beyond all imagination. but he was gone, gone, said smith, for ever.

and the dawn came up in the east upon the plain, and he saw, within half a mile of him, the big pine tree which had been their landmark. he rose and took kitty by the hand. she wished to look into the crater which had swallowed her man, but he drew her away towards the west. she walked quietly, with her head hanging down.

as he approached the pine, smith began to see other smaller timber about it, and further on, what seemed like the usual gums lining a river.

"if i'm right," he said, "we shall come to the river; we need it badly."

the ground was now more broken and not altogether sandy. here and there he saw rocks projecting, and once they came to hard ground. they passed one or two of the ghastly funnel holes, and finally came out of the sand upon a little higher ground. right beneath them was the silver lost river, running slowly through a flat which rose gradually to the north in the low range they had seen the day before.

as they came in sight of the stream, kitty broke down and cried.

"oh, baker," she said.

but smith knew what she meant. and he touched her arm.

"come, kitty."

even as he spoke he stayed

"what is that on the bank, kitty?" he asked.

for, two hundred yards away, there was a black spot on the white sand.

"it looks like a body," said kitty with a shiver.

and they went slowly towards the stream, wondering what this could be. was the dead man black or white? it might mean so much to them. it might mean further hazard, or strange, quick release from all their anxiety. but suddenly, when they came upon the level ground, kitty loosed her hold of smith, and ran along the river's edge like a deer. smith stopped, and then ran, too.

was it possible—possible?

yes, it was possible. for kitty had the baker's head against her bosom, and she was crying over him like a mother.

he was still alive.

smith dropped on his knees.

"it's half a miracle," he said. "yes, he's alive, kitty. rub his hands. he dropped into the river, the sunken river. good old baker."

and smith broke down himself, as the baker opened his eyes, and then shut them, relapsing once more into unconsciousness.

they stripped off his wet clothes, and laid him in a sunny, sheltered place. smith wiped his body with his own shirt, which he took off; and presently the baker opened his eyes and saw them.

"such a bally nightmare," he said. "where's kitty?"

and kitty bent and kissed him. "good old girl," he said; "what's wrong?"

"nothing, nothing," cried smith cheerfully; "we're out of it all now."

"ah!" said the baker, "i remember."

he sat up, and, as real consciousness came back, memory returned, too, and he shivered. a strange, wan, pinched look was on his face. he looked a worn, broken man, and much, much older. from that hour his hair rapidly whitened. but he was quite sane.

"do you feel all right now?" asked smith.

"will i ever feel right?" asked the baker. "but i feels 'ungry, and i suppose that's a good sign."

but there was nothing to eat. they held a bit of a council while the baker's clothes dried.

"tell us all about it," said smith.

but the baker shook his head.

"give me a bit of time, old un," he pleaded. "can you get any tucker, kitty?"

she said she thought she might get a lizard. but if she did, they might have to eat it raw, for the only matches among them had been in the baker's possession, and they were wet through. this reminded them of that, and they spread them out to dry.

"never mind," said smith cheerfully, "if they are done for. mrs. mandeville will make a fire aboriginal fashion."

and she acknowledged that she might be able to do that if she tried, though it was a man's job.

fortunately, however, there was no necessity for her to attempt it, as they saved at least half a box of the wet matches. their dinner was made of a particularly objectionable-looking lizard, with spurs and frills, and of a couple of bull-frogs, which kitty caught near the river. it made their courage rise again.

"and now it's for the coast," said smith. "d'ye think you can travel, baker?"

"i can that," said mandeville. "ain't i a new man? last night i was killed. i died, and went down into the pit."

"tell us," said smith.

"i'll show you where i came out," said the baker; and they walked up stream till they came to the place whence the river issued.

there were several mouths to it along the edge of the sand desert, some large, and some small, but it was evident that it had once issued from a single big cave. the new mouths were made by slabs of rock fallen together or resting on huge lumps of sandstone, mixed with a harder conglomerate, and they were, pretty evidently, the result of the last night's destruction.

"i guess i came out 'ere," said the baker, pointing to a triangular opening near the north bank. "for this one close to us is very shaller, and i should 'ave come ashore. but i drifted considerable after i got into the light. i'll tell you about it."

they all sat down on a sand heap to listen.

"i don't remember going to sleep, smith—"

"no," said smith, "you went to sleep walking."

"anyhow, i don't remember it, and the first thing i do remember, was doing the bloomin' sliding trick again. and then kitty 'ere collars me, and i 'eard 'er 'oller for you plain."

"i caught her by the ankles," said smith.

"and that done me," said the baker, "because i was tore out of 'er 'ands before i could ketch 'old myself. and then i gives a yell, and i just slid, and i thinks, 'now you're done, baker,' for i keeps on fallin' for h'ever. i guess it warn't reely far, but it seemed so, and then i was over'ead in water all of a sudden, and chokin' with sand and water at once. of course, i strikes out blind, and swims easy, but near choked with the 'orrible scare. and the darkness was stinking thick, i never see the like, no, never. and i thinks little bits of you and kitty over'ead, not able to 'elp me. and you may believe it or you may do the other thing, but i feels quite sorry for you. i remember, too, what a bloomin' coward i was over them pits. and i thinks of 'ome and the mile end road of a saturday night. then my 'and touches a rock; i tries to grab the thing, but it was smooth, and it 'ad nothing to hold by. then i finds i was slipping past it easy. and mind you, h'all this time i made sure i was dead; i couldn't see h'other than that i'd drown. but when i finds the water was going, another bloomin' horror strikes me. i thinks, 'now, am i going into another bloomin' water-pit?' i screams then, and my voice comes back on me, and a'most stuns me, i grabs at the rock, though what for i dunno, and just then i thinks, 'why, to be sure, this is the blooming sunk river, and maybe it comes out.' so i lets up trying to 'old, and swims easy with the current. and i believe that i swum steady for years, for years, yes, and as i got tired i felt old. oh, but it was bad, smith. and just as i thinks i'm done, i sees that three-square 'ole of light, and afore i knowed, i was through it, and i seed the stars and the banks. i scrambled to it and clawed out a yard or so, and then i tumbles flat where you found me, you and kitty 'ere; gawd bless 'er and you."

he kissed kitty, and held out his hand to his old chum.

they rose, and began their journey once more.