"They're worth nothing where there's no one to buy them," he growled. Then, impatiently, he said: "Don't waste your time bothering about that. What you want to do is to take those clothes off right away. Then you'll dry them and put them on again. You can't remain any longer in wet clothes."
He spoke authoritatively, with the commanding air of one who intends to be obeyed. She was in no mood to argue the matter. Besides, he was right. She was already chilled and ran the danger of getting pneumonia unless she dried her clothes quickly; but how could she change them—with no fire to dry her things and with this man coming in and out? He saw her embarrassment and intuitively guessed the reason. He was still in the shadow, but she fancied she noticed a covert smile hovering about his mouth, and she immediately took a dislike to him, in spite of the service he had rendered her. His manner was overbearing—almost insolent. Again, there was something about him that reminded her of a man she had known or seen, but still she could not remember. Turning to her, he said gruffly:
"I'm fairly well soaked myself. While you're changing I'll go and take a run along the sands and dry my clothes in the sun. Before I go I'll light a fire for you to dry your clothes on."
He produced from his pocket a small box wrapped in oilskin. Opening it, he held up three lucifer matches, and, grimly, he said:
"These are worth more to us than your pearls. See—there are only three left, and they're as dry as when I left the ship. I'm going to light a fire just outside there, at the foot of the cliff. Once lighted, the fire must never be allowed to go out. It must burn night and day. It will keep us warm and cook our food. I'll start the fire; you'll keep it going with what small pieces of wood you can gather. Do you understand?"
Grace was taken aback. For a moment she was speechless with indignation. This man, this common sailor, was actually giving her a command, telling her to do menial work, and admonishing her to do it properly, as if she were a domestic servant. Her first impulse was to rebel and order him angrily from her presence. On second thoughts, she said nothing. After all, he was right. She ought to be willing to do her share. They were no longer on the ship where she had only to touch a button and a dozen maids and stewards ran to obey her slightest whim. Although reared in luxury, and petted and indulged since her birth, she was not a fool. She was quick to realize that conditions had changed and that their respective social positions—hers and this sailor's—were now completely reversed. She was dependent on him, not he on her. If she were to be saved, it would be thanks to his resourcefulness, his courage. Her money would be of no use here. He alone could protect and save her, so why, quarrel with him. Docilely, therefore, she replied:
"Yes—I understand."
Armitage left her alone in the cave, and, proceeding along the silvery sands, set hastily to work to gather together the scattered driftwood. The beach was strewn for miles with the flotsam and jetsam of countless tides, an accumulation that apparently had been undisturbed for centuries. Much of it was moldy with age and, well protected from the rains by overhanging rocks, was dry as tinder.
"This stuff'll make a bully blaze," he muttered cheerfully to himself.
He toiled with a will, glad of the brisk exercise to take the kinks out of his numbed limbs. The sun was now high above the horizon, and its warm rays felt grateful after the chill of the stormy night. Directly he had started the fire, he'd leave the girl to change her clothes and go himself where he could take a rub-down and lay out his own things to dry. Then he'd take a run along the coast and climb the cliff to see what sort of a place this was they had landed on. He felt a sense of relief that he was no longer subjected to the discipline and restraint of the ship.