He thought he heard Barringford calling and started to answer. Then he
pushed forward once more, hoping each moment to gain higher ground.

But the pocket,--for such it really was,--grew deeper, and suddenly he
found himself at the edge of a deep hole. He tried to step back, but the
dirt under his feet gave way and he plunged downward he knew not whither.
He felt his head strike some projection, and felt some dirt come down on
top of him, and then, for the time being, he knew no more.

The young hunter came to his senses slowly. His first realization was that
his head pained him greatly, and that some weight was trying to force the
air from his lungs. He tried to move his hands, to learn that each was
covered with the dirt which had come down on top of him.

With a great effort he cleared his hands and then his body and tried to
rise to his feet. But he could not stand, and trembling like a leaf he sank
down on a rock near at hand. All was pitch dark around him and the rain
beat steadily on his head.

"I'm in a pickle truly!" he muttered dismally. "Wonder where Sam can be?"

He tried to cry out, but his voice was woefully weak and uncertain, and he
soon gave up the effort. Then he tried again to walk, but had to desist in
despair.

He could not imagine how long he had been under the fallen dirt, but knew
it must be some time, perhaps an hour or two. Where Barringford was there
was no telling.