"Now, for a dry stick or two," he said, cheerily.
She directed him, and at last he found what he thought would do. Then began the age-old procedure of twisting a pointed stick between one's hands, the point resting on another piece of wood, until friction brought a flame. It was a long, hard experiment; several times he stopped to rest; but the consciousness of the skeptical expression he knew to be on her face sent him quickly back again to his task. At last the moss began to burn. True, it smoked much and flamed little, but he gathered twigs from the shrubs near by and in time had a good fire. Then he carried Claire to the rock and set her down beside it. She leaned her elbow on the edge and said, happily: "It's quite a success, Lawrence. I really feel as though we were progressing."
"Our woodcraft will doubtless improve with experience," he answered.
"Next, I guess we had better bathe your ankle," he observed, as though giving due care to the order of procedure.
"Very well," she replied.
At her suggestion he gathered moss and wet it in the tiny stream. She wound it about her ankle and held it tightly.
"Now the surgeon orders splints and bandages," she said.
He brought several sticks, and with a strip which she tore from the lining of his coat, she bound them fast.
"There," she said, sighing, for the pain was wearing. "That ought to help. I wonder what our distant grandparents did in such cases."
"Made the best of it," he said cheerfully. "Many of them died, I suppose."