"A sand-storm," said Higgs, his florid face paling a little. "Bad luck
for us! That's what comes of getting out of bed the wrong side first
this morning. No, it's your fault, Adams; you helped me to salt last
night, in spite of my remonstrances" (the Professor has sundry little
superstitions of this sort, particularly absurd in so learned a man).
"Well, what shall we do? Get under the lee of the hill until it blows
over?"

"Don't suppose it will blow over. Can't see anything to do except say
our prayers," remarked Orme with sweet resignation. Oliver is, I think,
the coolest hand in an emergency of any one I ever met, except, perhaps,
Sergeant Quick, a man, of course, nearly old enough to be his father.
"The game seems to be pretty well up," he added. "Well, you have killed
two lions, Higgs, and that is something."

"Oh, hang it! You can die if you like, Oliver. The world won't miss you;
but think of its loss if anything happened to _me_. I don't intend to be
wiped out by a beastly sand-storm. I intend to live to write a book on
Mur," and Higgs shook his fist at the advancing clouds with an air that
was really noble. It reminded me of Ajax defying the lightning.

Meanwhile I had been reflecting.

"Listen," I said. "Our only chance is to stop where we are, for if we
move we shall certainly be buried alive. Look; there is something
solid to lie on," and I pointed to a ridge of rock, a kind of core of
congealed sand, from which the surface had been swept by gales. "Down
with you, quick," I went on, "and let's draw that lion-skin over our
heads. It may help to keep the dust from choking us. Hurry, men; it's