The roof and turf walls were good, and he saw a cracked stove and a broken box. A few creosoted billets, hacked from a railroad tie, and two or three lumps of coal were in a corner. Somebody had left a sheet torn from a newspaper in which the man perhaps had carried lunch. Then the match went out.
“Pull off and shake your coat,” said Kit. “Keep going; I’ll light a fire.”
He felt for the box, tore off a broken board and opened his knife. His hands were numb, and in the dark to whittle the wood was awkward, but he must husband his matches. By and by he picked up the newspaper.
“Beat your hands,” he said to Alison, and when she did so he gave her the matches. “I want a light.”
Alison used three or four matches and he carefully put the chips and paper and a fire-stick whittled to a ragged end in the stove. Then the light went out and Alison said: “Are you ready, Kit? The matches are nearly gone.”
“Give me another—I think it’s all we’ll need,” Kit replied and Alison, kneeling down, put a match to the fuel.
A pale flame touched the chips and flickered along the ragged stick. A puff of smoke blew from the stove door, and then all was dark.
“How many matches have you now?” Kit inquired.
“Three or four,” said Alison quietly.
Kit frowned. His hands were stiff and he could not properly cut the end of the fire-stick, but he pulled out his tobacco pouch. In Western Canada smokers often roll the cigarettes they use, and Kit had some papers. When he found the packet, however, it felt very thin. All the same, he must get a fire. The cold was arctic, and the railroad gangs talked of men frozen by blizzards when all thought winter gone. Kit felt for his wallet.