I seemed to feel brighter and more cheerful as we sat together soon

after, discussing whether we should light the candle again, and all at

once Shock exclaimed: "I say."

"What, Shock?"

"I won't shy nothing at you no more."

"It does not seem as if you will ever have the chance, Shock," I cried

dolefully.

"Oh, I don't know, mate," he said; and at that word "mate" I seemed to

feel a curious shrinking from him; but it passed off directly.

"Shall I light the candle?" he said after a pause.

"Yes, just for one look round," I said. "Perhaps we can find a way

out."

The candle was lit, and I started as I saw how much the sand had crept

in during the time that we had been asleep. It had regularly flowed in

like water, and as we held the candle down there was one place where it

trickled down a slope, just as you see it in an egg-boiler or an

old-fashioned hour-glass.

We looked all round; went to the spot where the hole ended in what was

quite hard sandy rock. Then we looked up at the top, where we could

dimly make out the crack or rift through which the smoke had gone, but

there was no daylight to be seen through it, though of course it

communicated with the outer air.

Then we had a look at the part where we had come in, but there the sand

was loose, and we had learned by bitter experience that to touch it was

only to bring down more.

"I say," said Shock, as we extinguished the scrap of candle left, part

of which had run down on Shock's hand; "we're shut up."

"Shut up!" I said indignantly; "have you just found that out?"

"Well, don't hit a fellow," he cried. "I say, have a bit?"

"Bit of what?" I cried, as I realised how hungry I had grown.

"Taller," he said. "Some on it run down. There ain't much; two or

three little nobbles. I'll give yer a fair whack."

"Why, you don't mean to eat that, you nasty fellow," I cried.

"Don't!" he said; "but I do. Here's your half. I've eat worse things

than that."

"Why, Shock," I cried, as a flash of hope ran through me, "I forgot."

"Forgot what?" he cried. "Way out?"

"No," I said gloomily; "but my sandwiches--bread and meat Mrs Solomon

cut for me."

"Bread and meat!" he shouted. "Where is it?"

"In my jacket. I hung it on a stone in the side somewhere here. Light

a match."

Crick--crick--crack went the match; then there was a flash, and the

sputtering bubbling blue flame of the sulphur, for matches were made

differently in those days, when paraffin had not been dreamed of for

soaking the wood.




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