Story 1 -- Chapter 8.
Seldom have the mysterious sparks of life been sought for more anxiously, or tended and nursed with greater care, than were the little sparks of fire which were evoked with difficulty from Tomlin’s match-box.
Drizzling rain had commenced just as the wrecked party landed. The tarpaulin had been set up as a slight though very imperfect shelter; the ground underneath had been strewn with twigs and grass, and a large pile of dead branches had been arranged to receive the vital spark before any attempt was made to create it.
“Everything must be quite ready, first,” said Hayward to Tomlin, “for our very lives depend, under God, on our securing fire; so keep the matches snug in your pocket till I ask for them.”
“I will,” replied Tomlin, “D’you know it never occurred to me before how tremendously important the element of fire is? But how will you ever manage to make the branches catch, everything being so thoroughly soaked?”
“You shall see. I have had to make a fire in worse circumstances than the present,” returned Hayward, “though I admit they are bad enough. Have you got the small twigs broken and ready, Slag?”
“All ready, sir.”
“Now look here, Tomlin.”
As he spoke, the doctor picked up a dead but wet branch, and, sheltering himself under the tarpaulin, began to whittle it with his penknife. He found, of course, that the interior of the branch was dry. The thin morsels which he sliced off were handed to Slag, who placed them with great care in the heart of a bundle of very small twigs resembling a crow’s nest. A place had been reserved for this bundle or nest, in the heart of the large pile of branches lying on the ground. Meanwhile, Slag held the nest ready in his hands.