“Hooray!” cried Dan. “Is it a good one?”
Gerald viewed it dubiously as he clambered back.
“I—I think so,” he answered, handing it over for their inspection. Dan examined it and passed it to Alf, and Alf, with a shake of his head, presented it to Tom. It was about two thirds of a sulphur match and had evidently been exposed, if not to rain, at least to dampness, for the head had lost its brilliancy of hue.
“A most dissipated looking article,” pondered Tom. “It looks to me like a match with a sad and eventful past. However”—he returned it to Alf—“see what you can do with it.”
“You light it, Dan,” said Alf carelessly. But Dan shook his head.
“It would go out as sure as Fate if I tried it. You do it, Tom.”
“Never! I decline to assume the terrible responsibility. Let Gerald perform the mystic rite.” But Gerald drew back as though Dan were offering him poison.
“I wouldn’t dare!” he laughed. “Alf, you do it.”
“Well, maybe it won’t light, anyway,” said Alf, accepting the match and the responsibility. He looked about him. “There’s no use trying to light it here in this wind, though.”
“Tom and I’ll hold one of the rugs up,” said Dan.