Then the boy scout began to work the bent bow which passed through a hole in the upper part of the drill, steadily to and fro, slowly turning that drill, grinding its lower point into the punky wood of the fireboard.
In the eye of each of the four boys the coveted spark already glowed, drilled by excitement out of the dead wood of his fatigue.
Even the dog, his jaws gaping, his tongue lolling out, lay stretched at attention, his gaze intent upon the central figure of the boy scout working the strapped bow backward and forward, turning the pointed drill that bored into the fireboard.
Ground-up wood began to fall through the notch in the fireboard adjacent to the hole upon another slab of wood which Nixon had placed as a tray beneath it.
This powdered wood was brown. Slowly it turned black. Was that smoke?
It was a strange tableau, the four disheveled boys with their red-smeared faces, the painted clown’s dog, all holding their breath intent upon the primitive miracle of the fire-birth.
Smoke it was! Increasing smoke! And in its tiny cloud suddenly appeared the miracle—a dull red spark at the heart of the black wood dust.
“What do you know about that?” Marcoo’s voice was thick.
“Gee! that’s a—wonderful—stunt. I guess you could light a fire with a piece of damp bark and a snowball!” Leon looked up at the panting scout.