"Some of it 'as went that way," the stoker admitted, "but for three weeks past I've denied myself to put a bit into a concern as I think is going to prove a paying thing."
"Owch!" exclaimed the engineer, who had been restlessly pacing in the velvety darkness round the still glowing wreck of the living-van.
"Don't you believe wot I've told you?" demanded the stoker haughtily.
"You don't always lie, George," said the engineer, gently. "Wot made me shout out like that just now," he explained, "was treading on something queer, down by the near side wheels. Somethink brittle that cracked like rotten sticks under my 'eel, an' then I slid on something round an' squashy. An' the smell like roast apples, what I noticed before, is stronger than ever."
"'Ave you a match about you?" asked the stoker eagerly.
"One," said the engineer, delicately withdrawing a solitary "kindler" from the bottom of his waistcoat pocket.
The stoker received the match, and struck it on his trousers. A blue glimmer resulted, a faint s-s-s! followed, and the match went out.
"On'y a glim," said the stoker in a satisfied tone, "but it showed me as I've made my money. An' made it easy, too."
"'Ow much 'ave you pulled orf, then?" asked the engineer.
"Double the value," replied the stoker, smiling broadly through the darkness, "of the property what I've lost in this here conflagration."