When they rose the next morning, all looked serious. Each felt that the crisis had come. All eyes were turned upon poor old Dobbin, who, unconscious of his danger, was browsing¹ near the camp.

“Grant,” said Tom suddenly, “let us give Dobbin a small lease of life.”

“Will it do any good, Tom?”

“I don’t know; but this is what I propose: let us each take a rifle and go in different directions. We may find a deer or antelope² to serve as a substitute for Dobbin, or something else may turn up.”

“Very well, Tom.”

So the two started out.

Chance directed Grant’s steps into a sheltered valley. Coarse grass covered the ground, which seemed luxurious³ when compared 115with the white alkali plains over which they had been travelling.

Grant kept on his way, taking pains not to lose his bearings, for he did not care to stray from the party, and it was quite possible to get lost. There was no evidence of human habitation. So far as appearances went, this oasis⁴ might have come fresh from the creative hand, and never fallen under the eye of man. But appearances are deceptive⁵.

Turning a sharp corner, Grant was amazed to find before him a veritable log cabin. It was small, only about twelve feet square, and had evidently at some time been inhabited.

Curious to learn more of this solitary⁶ dwelling⁷, Grant entered through the open door. Again he was surprised to find it comfortably furnished. On the rough floor was a Turkish rug. In one corner stood a bedstead, covered with bedding. There were two chairs and a settee. In fact, it was better furnished than Robinson Crusoe’s dwelling in his solitary island.

Grant entered and sat down on a chair.

“What does it all mean, I wonder?” he 116asked himself. “Does anybody live here, or when did the last

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