“All right. But I’ve got to have a piece of paper. That old grass may not light.” Finally Tom sacrificed a half sheet of a letter and the boys gathered anxiously about the little pile of wood and grass, into which Alf had thrust the twisted piece of paper. Tom and Dan held one of the rugs out to form a screen and Alf knelt down and seized the match firmly.
“Wait!” cried Gerald. Alf jumped and dropped the match.
“What’s the matter?” he asked crossly, as he recovered the precious article.
“Don’t scratch it on your trousers,” begged Gerald. “It’s old and the brimstone might come off. Scratch it on a rock.”
“That’s right,” commended Dan. “Get a rock, Gerald.”
So Gerald found one and laid it beside the pile and once more they all held their breath while Alf, with grim determination writ large upon his countenance, drew the match lightly across the stone. There was an anxious moment, for at first there was no flame to be seen. But then the paper blackened at the edge and little yellow tongues began to lick at the dry grass. Four sighs of relief burst simultaneously upon the air.
[“Don’t take the rug away yet,” begged Alf], as he watched anxiously with his nose some six inches from the fire. Gerald stood ready with more fuel.
