[ANOTHER OF HIS PRECIOUS MATCHES]
He told himself that there was a perceptible freshening of the atmosphere in the old cellar. The place certainly was still one in which he would not have cared to linger, but as he scrambled to a pile of rubbish, and caught up an armful, his breathing, though quickened, was not difficult. What he collected he could no more than guess, for the match flame hardly lightened the shadows. By feeling rather than by sight he knew that it was wood upon which he laid hands. Then the Shark had caught the load, and Varley was back for another, which followed the first through the opening. Then down shot the Shark’s arm, and a hand closed on Paul’s collar.
“That’s enough to begin with. You come up—while the coming’s good!”
The Shark’s tone was gruff, but, somehow, Varley knew there was approval in it. With right good will he obeyed the order; and with the other’s aid he was soon back in the room. His hands were bleeding from sliver wounds, and his clothes were torn, but his spirits were rising rapidly.
“Huh! Good work!” grunted the Shark. “Stuff’ll burn.”
Varley glanced at his plunder. It included barrel staves, broken for the most part; short lengths of board; a stick or two of split fire-wood; all coated with dust and cobwebs, which had accumulated in the course of many years.
“Sure it’ll burn,” he declared. “It ought to be as dry as tinder.”
The Shark knelt by the hearth and made a little pyramid of shavings, topped with bits of board. Then he struck another match; the shavings ignited; a yellow flame showed, and above it rose a curl of smoke.
Deftly the Shark brought forward more wood, and added it to the pile. The flames spread, and so, for that matter, did the smoke, which belched from the fireplace into the room.
“Got—got to wait for the chimney to warm,” gasped the Shark. “Always the way.... Whew! but that was a smotherer!”