The arch ruffian
had checkmated us for the third time inside three days.
We struck the bottom at last, and, like moles, we clawed our way out of
the pile of soft, feathery stuff that came streaming down upon us like a
river, and for some minutes we were busy wiping the fluffy ash from
mouth and eyes and ears. It clung to us like down, and with each breath
we drew it into our lungs till we coughed and sneezed from the
irritation it produced. Struggling forward, knee-deep in the fine, dry
powder, we reached a spot that was practically clear, and for five
minutes we were busy endeavouring to relieve our tortured lungs.
"How far did we roll?" asked Holman.
"About half a mile," I replied.
"But straight, Verslun! What do you think?"
"Over a hundred yards; I'm certain of that."
"Well, I'm going to climb back."
"You can't do it!" I gasped. "That stuff is like quicksand."
"All the same I'm going to make a try."
We stumbled back to the gigantic ash pile, and shoulder to shoulder we
made a rush at the immense mountain down which we had rolled. We
couldn't see it, but we felt it rise around us like a flood as our legs
sank deeper.
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