Still he moved, slowly, uncertainly; one might say unconsciously. He fell over his lifeless burden, let his throbbing head rest for just a moment on the soft body, then gathered the wet scarf again into his mouth and knew that he was still alive by the gritty, earthy taste in his mouth. He could not keep his stinging eyes open, but he thought, or rather felt (for his mind was not capable of thinking) that he was near the entrance. Instinctively he reached out a clammy hand and groped for the light, as if it were something tangible that he could get hold of. His cold, trembling fingers closed upon a bit of root in the rocky passage. The knowledge of this inner entrance had quite passed from his mind, but instinctively he clutched the root and pulled with all his might, dragging the body after him. He knew (as one is conscious in a dream) that he was pulling with one hand, dragging something with the other, and helping his progress with both feet, in this final, supreme, spasmodic effort. And it brought him to where the air was a little clearer. Even here in the passage it was thick and stifling, but it was mixed with the pure air of heaven. He never knew how he groped his way out. But there came a moment when he pushed the muddy, drenched scarf from his mouth and breathed freely, though his head pounded and his eyes stung. He was under the tilted root of the great tree, brushing the dangling tentacles aside with his hand as he crawled through, dragging his burden after him. Not until he emerged on the rugged, green hillside did he pause. He heard a bird singing. Just as he sank back in utter exhaustion he saw several crows in flight overhead; their cawing sounded miles away. Idly, half-consciously, he tried to count them. Hazily, he looked at the face of the boy he had dragged to safety. It was streaked with blood and dirt from contact with the rocky earth. The eyes were closed; the body lay limp, in a way to strike terror, with an arm extended as if the prostrate thing were making a speech. The victim wore a scout suit which was in shreds and covered with mud. Danville blinked his stinging eyes, trying with his slowly returning senses to comprehend this strange sequel to his harrowing adventure. He did not know what to make of it; all that he knew was that the boy was not Skinny. And Skinny was nowhere to be seen. CHAPTER XXV FROM ABOVE At the moment when Skinny had crawled out of the cave an inspiration had come to him. He had no idea what had caused the suffocating fumes which had filled the place. The cave, as he remembered it, contained nothing inflammable into which his lighted match could have fallen; nor anything on which he could have tripped. Yet he had stumbled on something of considerable bulk. However, he did not pause to consider these mysteries.