When Dick first made tender inquiry as to the comforts of an hotel, he was assured that there were at least a couple of dozen.

But the place was bewildering.

There seemed to be no beginning to it and no end.

There were many tracks about here and there,--but nothing which could be called a road.

The number of holes was infinite,--each hole covered by a rough windlass used for taking out the dirt, which was thrown loosely anywhere round the aperture.