Chapter Thirty One.
Lost.
“Ahoy, there! Ahoy!” shouted the doctor again and again, startling the great owl from its eagle-like eerie and making the rocks echo the cry. But there was no response, and the party looked at each other for an explanation of the position.
“He has not been here,” said the captain, “and we must go back and search. How tiresome, when we are so weary!”
“I wish you had not brought him,” grumbled the doctor. “I say, isn’t anybody going to make a fire?”
“Look here, sir!” cried Jakobsen suddenly from where he stood by a big mass of rock.
“Yes! what is it?” cried the captain; and he stepped toward the man, followed by the others, to where Jakobsen pointed down to a ring of stones, within which was a quantity of dry, heathery stuff with a number of weather-worn lumps of coal.
“No mistake about his having been here,” said the doctor, taking out a box of matches, which, to his astonishment, was snatched from his fingers by Watty, who dropped upon his knees, struck and shaded a match, applied it to the light stuff, which blazed up at once, and then began to fan it with his bonnet in one hand, as he kept on adding little bits of coal with the other.
“She’ll soon have a ferry pig fire,” said Watty, “and she’d petter get ta steaks retty to frizzle. She can cook peautifully the noo.”