“What am I to light one with?” groaned Gwyn.
“Oh! I’d forgotten,” cried Joe, piteously, “you’ve no matches.”
“No, I’ve no matches.”
“But you had some, I know—you had a box; feel in your pockets again.”
There was a faint rustling sound as in obedience to his companion’s imperative words, Gwyn felt in each pocket vainly, and then uttered a sigh like a groan.
“No, no, no!” he cried, “there is a hole in my pocket, and the box must have gone through.”
“Oh,” cried Joe, angrily; “how could I be such a fool as to trust you to carry them?”
“You mean how could you be such a fool as to come without a box yourself,” said Gwyn, bitterly.
“Yes, that’s it, I suppose. Here, I know—we must strike a light from the rock with the backs of our knives.”
“What for?” said Gwyn, bitterly. “Where are the tinder and matches?”