Mike had made a dart to seize the lanthorn, but he paused now.
“You coward!” he cried.
“All right: so I am. I’ve been in a terrible stew to-day several times, but I’m not such a coward that I’m afraid to put out the light.”
Mike turned his back and began to imitate his companion in stripping off his wet lower garments, wringing them thoroughly, and spreading them on the dry sand, with which he, too, filled his saturated boots.
Meanwhile Vince was setting him another example—that of raking out a hole in the softest sand, snuggling down into it and drawing it over him all round till he was covered.
“Not half such nice sand as it is in our cave, Ladle,” he said.
There was no answer.
“I say, Ladle, don’t I look like a cock bird sitting on the nest while the hen goes out for a walk?”
Still there was no reply, and Mike finished his task with his wet garments.
“Sand’s best and softest up here,” said Vince, taking out the tinder-box from the breast of his jersey and placing it by the lanthorn.