Paul hesitated. “Why—why, if we could get word to ’em——”
Plainly, the Shark was rapidly becoming himself again, for he grunted scornfully. “Ugh! No telephone, no message. That’s all there is to it. May as well take things as they are and make the best of ’em.”
“Well, I suppose that’s so,” Paul admitted, ruefully. Making the best of a long deserted house did not appear to him to offer much of promise.
The Shark limped back to the break in the floor. He moved with caution, and came to no harm. Apparently the floor was in fair condition except at the spot where it had given way beneath their weight. The Shark offered an explanation:
“Umph! Must have been a patch of dry-rot, and we struck it. Happens that way sometimes—don’t know the reason. But they built for keeps, the old fellows did, and this old shack’ll stand nobody knows how much longer. Now let’s see what we can do for kindling.”
Bending down, he laid hold upon one of the fractured boards. The wood yielded to the pull, and he ripped off a piece a foot or more in length and two or three inches across. A second tug yielded a slightly smaller piece.
Varley was observing the proceedings wonderingly.
“You don’t mean to say, do you, that you can make a fire with that stuff?” he asked.
“I can start one,” quoth the Shark. “Got to get something else to keep her going.”
“Where can you get it?”