“Now, Tomlin, get out your matches,” said the doctor.
With the utmost care the anxious man unfolded the kerchief, and, opening the box, looked into it earnestly.
“Wet?” asked Hayward.
Tomlin shook his head. “I fear they are.” He took one out, while the whole party assembled round him to note the result.
The first match dropped its head like a piece of soft putty when scraped on the lid. The second did the same, and a suppressed groan escaped from the little group, for it could be seen that there were not more than ten or twelve matches in the box altogether. Again and again a match was struck with similar result. The fifth, however, crackled a little, and rekindled, sinking hope in the observers, though it failed to kindle itself. The seventh burst at once into a bright blaze and almost drew forth a cheer, which, however, was checked when a puff of wind blew out the new-born flame.
“Och! let Bob Massey try it!” cried O’Connor. “Sure he’s used to workin’ in throublesome weather.”
“Right, boy,” said Slag, “hand it to the coxs’n.”
Tomlin readily obeyed, only too glad to get some of the failure shifted to other shoulders.
Massey readily undertook the task, and success attended his first effort.
“I knowed it!” said Nellie, in a quiet tone, as she saw the bright flame leap up and almost set her husband’s beard on fire. “Bob never fails!”