“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Bob. Then, “Thunder!” he exclaimed.
He had scratched it on a damp place and the head had rubbed off without lighting.
“Was that the last?” Nelson asked anxiously.
“No, one more. You’d better do it, Nel.” And Bob handed the precious match over to him.
“If this goes out, too—!” muttered Nelson.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bob presently.
“The blamed thing hasn’t any head on it,” answered Nelson disgustedly. “I’ve scraped it and scraped it and—oh, pshaw, it’s a toothpick!”
“Hang!” remarked Bob feelingly.
“And just when I had a fire all ready! Look through your pockets again, Bob. Maybe you’ll find another.” There was a minute of silence during which each searched from pocket to pocket, broken finally by an exultant exclamation from Bob.
“Here’s a piece of one!” he cried. “And it’s the business end, too. Who’s going to scratch it?”