“No—no—no! I hung it on a bit of sharp stone that stuck out of the wall somewhere, and I can’t feel the place. It’s so puzzling being in the dark. I don’t know which is front and which is back now.”
“Front’s where the soft sand is,” said Shock.
“Of course,” I cried, feeling half stupefied all the time. “Then this is the front here. I hung it on the stone and it was just above my head.”
I walked about on the soft sand, feeling about above my head, and all over the face of the cave side for a long time in vain; and then with my head swimming I sank down in despair, and leaned heavily back, to utter a cry of pain.
“What’s matter?” cried Shock, coming to me.
“I’ve struck the back of my head against a sharp stone,” I cried, turning round to feel for the projecting piece.
“Why, it’s here, Shock. This is the piece I hung my jacket on, but it has sunk down. No, no,” I cried; “I forgot; it is the bottom of the hole that has filled up. The sand has come up all this way. Keep back.”
I had turned on my hands and knees and was tearing out the sand just below the projecting piece of sand-rock.
“What yer doing?” cried Shock. “You’ll make more come down and cover us up.”
“My jacket is buried down here,” I cried, and I worked away feeling certain that I should find it, and at last, in spite of the sand coming down almost as fast as I tore it out, I scratched and scraped away till, to my great delight, I got hold of a part of the jacket and dragged it out.