The same line of light, and the phosphorescent tip of the match going down again to expire in the water.
“Hope you have got plenty of matches,” said Dean.
“Yes, plenty,” cried Mark, making the rattle in the box again.
“You must have got them wet somehow.”
“No, no,” cried Mark impatiently. “It is my fingers that are so moist with perspiration.”
“What a bother! I’d have a try, but my hands are regularly wet. The stones down here are dripping and oozing.”
“Don’t you stir,” cried Mark. “I’ll try again, and give my fingers a good rub first on my sleeve.”
“Yes, do; and mind you don’t touch the round tip of the match.”
“I’m afraid I must have done so to all of them.”
“Afraid be hanged!” said Dean impetuously. “What is there to be afraid of? Now, don’t hurry. I’m getting as cool as a dessert ice; and you are getting better, arn’t you?”