The Shark nodded at the hole in the floor. “Down there. Lot of junk lying around. Saw it while the match was flickering.”
Varley’s face lengthened. “What! You’d risk it in that cellar again?”
“I’d risk more than that for a fire. Need it in my business, and need it quick.”
“Well, you’re not going down there,” said Varley with decision.
The Shark peered at him. “Huh? I’m not? How you make that out?”
“Because I’m going down. Look here! Whoever goes ought not to stay there long. It’ll be a case of grabbing up stuff that’ll burn and passing it up to the other fellow. Now, I’ve got longer arms and legs than you have. I can reach farther. When it comes to getting out, I can get a grip on the floor, and you can lend a hand from above. The air below won’t be good, but it’ll be no worse than it was before. Maybe it’ll be a little better—perhaps some fresh air will leak down through the hole. But I can work the trick, and I can work it better than you could, because I’m better built for it.”
The Shark paused in the operation of splitting one of the pieces of board. He blinked at Varley for a moment.
“Hanged if I thought you had it in you!” he said frankly. “Oh, I don’t mean the courage—that’s common enough. I mean the gumption—the head-piece—the sense to figure it out. What you say’s all true; you’re better built for the job. So you may do it. And—well, you might as well go to it.”
Varley needed no urging. He lowered himself through the opening, and dropped to the floor of the cellar. The Shark struck [another of his precious matches], and held it like a tiny torch to guide the forager. There was draft enough to make it flicker wildly, but the same air currents did Varley a good turn.
