“Light one of the pieces I’ve got in my pockets,” said Vince coolly, as he sat down on the water-worn granite, and placed a round, flattish tin box between his knees. “Didn’t bring a cushion with you, did you?”
“Cushion? No; what for?”
“One to sit on: this is precious hard.”
And then scratch, scratch: a rub of a tiny wax match upon the sanded side of a box, and a flash of red, dim light followed by a clear white flame?
Nothing of the kind: matches of that sort had not been invented fifty or sixty years ago. Whoever wanted a light had to go to work as Vince prepared to do, after placing a thin slip of wood sharpened at each end and dipped in brimstone ready to hand. Taking a piece of steel or iron bent round so as to form a rough handle to be grasped, while the knuckles were guarded by the edge of the steel, this was held over the tin box, which was, on the inner lid or press being removed, half full of burned cotton ash now forming the tinder that was to catch the sparks.
Vince was pretty handy at the task from old experience, and gripping the box tightly between his knees he made the hollow, cavernous place echo again as he struck the steel in his left hand with a piece of sharp-edged flint held in his right.
Nick, nick, nick, nick—the nearly forgotten sound that used to rise in early morning from the kitchen before a fire could be lit—and nick, nick, nick, nick again, here in the narrow opening, where the rays of sunshine shot down and made the sparks which flew from flint and steel look pale as they shot downward at every stroke the lad gave.
Mike felt nervous at the idea of penetrating the depths below them, and to hide this nervousness he chattered, and said the first thing that came to his lips in a bantering tone:
“Here! you are a fellow to get a light. Let me have a try.”
But as he spoke one spark fell upon the tinder and seemed to stay, while as soon as Vince saw this he bent down and blew, with the result that it began to glow and increase in size so much that when the brimstoned point of the match was applied to the glowing spot still fanned by the breath the curious yellow mineral began to melt, sputter, and then burst into a soft blue flame, which was gradually communicated to the wood. This burned freely, the candle in the lanthorn was lit, the door shut, and the tinder-box with flint and steel closed and smothered out and returned to the creel.