“What is it? What did you see?” gasped Miss Leslie.
“Footprint,” mumbled Blake, ashamed of his fright.
“A lion’s?” cried Winthrope.
“Not so large–’bout the size of a puma’s. Must be a leopard’s den up there. I heard a growl, and thought it about time to clear out.”
“By Jove, we’d better withdraw around the point!”
“Withdraw your aunty! There’s no leopard going to tackle us out here in open ground this time of day. The sneaking tomcat! If only I had a match, I’d show him how we smoke rat holes.”
“Mr. Winthrope spoke of rubbing sticks to make fire,” suggested Miss Leslie.
“Make sweat, you mean. But we may as well try it now, if we’re going to at all. The sun’s hot enough to fry eggs. We’ll go back to a shady place, and pick up sticks on the way.”
Though there was shade under the cliff within some six hundred feet, they had to go some distance to the nearest dry wood–a dead thorp-bush. Here they gathered a quantity of branches, even Miss Leslie volunteering to carry a load.
All was thrown down in a heap near the cliff, and Blake squatted beside it, penknife in hand. Having selected the dryest of the larger sticks, he bored a hole in one side and dropped in a pinch of powdered bark. Laying the stick in the full glare of the sun, he thrust a twig into the hole, and began to twirl it between his palms. This movement he kept up for several minutes; but whether he was unable to twirl the twig fast enough, or whether the right kind of wood or tinder was lacking, all his efforts failed to produce a spark.