It enveloped them like a typical desert storm and lasted longer than any of them had expected it would. Even when it was over they were not able to immediately resume their way.
Big Jack and Don were for the moment out of commission, both having been temporarily blinded by the particles of dirt that got into their eyes; while Fred was making frantic efforts toward what seemed an attempt to stand on his head, though in reality he was trying to shake out of his shirt a great quantity of sand that had sifted down there. Andy was running around in circles, vainly peering into the air in search of his hat.
In a wild lurch for it, just as it took another upward swerve, he collided with Fred, sending that youth sprawling face downward over the ground.
Jack and Don both recovered their vision just in time to witness this unscheduled event, and to see Andy's hat come down fifty feet up the hill—another freak of such a storm—instead of somewhere down near the sea, where it might have been expected to land.
"I don't see anything funny in that," Fred complained, as he and the other two came up to where Andy, having recovered his top-piece, was awaiting them.
"In what?" Andy asked, seeing that Fred was addressing him.
"Why, in kicking a fellow when he's not looking—the way you just did to me."
"I didn't kick you, old acrobat," Andy explained good-naturedly. "You just got in the way, and believe me, I was going so I couldn't stop."
"Humph! Better look where you're headin' next time," Fred warned.