"Get down and crawl," Danville was just able to say; "keep near the ground!" He was overcome by a paroxysm of coughing but he heard, half-consciously, a sound which he thought to be Skinny crawling away. "All right?" he asked, his senses reeling. He heard Skinny answer, but the words were not clear. He did not know whether that was because Skinny could not speak clearly or because of the drumming in his own ears. His eyes were streaming and he fought for every breath. He would have fallen unconscious if he had not lowered himself to a crawling posture. Even so the ground seemed uncertain under him, like a yielding mattress. But he was in muddy water and the wetness reminded him to pull off his scarf and saturate it in the puddle. Hardly conscious of what he did, he pulled the dripping scarf over his head and face, gathering up the end of it between his teeth. His head swam, his hands trembled, but with his face swathed in the dripping scarf he was measurably restored. He was conscious of the gritty taste of thin mud in his mouth, and the stinging in his eyes diminished. For a few seconds he was sufficiently master of his senses to wish that he had reminded Skinny to wet his shirt and take it in his teeth. He called but the word he uttered did not sound like Skinny to his swimming brain. He was just conscious enough to know that he must act quickly. His improvised mask afforded but incomplete and temporary relief, and he knew that he was tottering on the brink of oblivion. But by pulling the scarf away from his eyes he was able to see that little glint which told of the fresh air and the bright, clear world outside. On hands and knees he crawled toward it. Suddenly his hand lay against something soft; he felt cloth, then hair, then a face. His senses were reeling now, his head bursting. He gathered more of the wet scarf into his mouth. In a vague way he realized that this soft object was Skinny, that the little fellow had not escaped, but had sunk unconscious. He could not speak to ask a question. What he did he seemed to be doing in a trance. But he got his arm around the prostrate form and hauled it with him toward the tiny beacon. To his ebbing senses the fume-filled place seemed vast, he was oddly persuaded that he had miles of suffocating area to cross, hauling his limp burden. Even the little glint of light deserted him. It did not disappear, but there were other lights, not real, but in his reeling brain. They came and went like stars and he knew not which light to follow.