“You’re not going to put out the light.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I won’t have it. It shall burn as long as I like. Besides, you couldn’t light it again.”
“Oh yes, I could. I’ve got the tinder-box, and it has always been too high up to get wet.”
“I don’t care,” said Mike desperately; “it’s too horrible to be here in the dark.”
“Not half so horrible as to be in the dark not knowing that you could get a light if you wanted to. We could if I put it out. We couldn’t if it was all burned.”
“I don’t care, I say once more—I say it must not be put out.”
“And I say,” replied Vince, speaking quite good-humouredly, while his companion’s voice sounded husky, and as if he were in a rage—“and I say that if you make any more fuss about it I’ll put it out now.”
As Vince spoke he made a sudden movement, snatched the lanthorn from where it stood by the wall, and tore open the door.
“Now,” he cried, catching up a handful of sand, “you come a step nearer, and I’ll smother the light with this.”