Pete thrust both hands down into his pockets, but did not stir to help, and Tom, after stamping out the fire in one place, had to dash to another; this being repeated again and again in the exciting moments. Then he mastered it, and a faint smoke and some blackened furze was all that was left of what, if left to itself, would have been a great common fire.
“All out?” said Sam, as his cousin came up hot and panting. “Why, what a fuss about nothing.”
“Fuss!” cried Tom excitedly; “why, if it had been left five minutes the fir-wood must have caught.”
“Bah! green wood won’t burn.”
“Oh, won’t it?” cried Pete. “It just will. Here, you give me my bit o’ string, or I shall go and say I see yer set the furze alight o’ purpose.”
“Go and say so then,” cried Tom. “No one will believe you. Come along, Sam.”
Tom gave one more look at the blackened furze, and then turned to his cousin.
“Look here,” he said; “you bear witness that this fire is quite out.”
“Oh, yes; it’s out,” said Sam.
“And that Pete Warboys showed us a box of matches.”