"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.