“This is the meanest wood!” labored Tom. “Wet’s water.” And he essayed another match.
All this time Bessie had worked industriously, saying nothing. She had broken and whittled her chips into small pieces, and now pulled off her pretty yachting cap, holding it closely over the bark while she struck her first match. Protected by her dress, and gathering courage in the shelter of the cap, it flared up cheerfully, catching the crisp edges of the bark in grand style.
Down goes the cap, the girl’s brown hair escaping in little curly tresses that toss in the wind.
“I’ve almost got it!” shouts Tom, blowing at his smoking heap with all his might.
“Go in, old fellow!”
“Hurry, Bess!”
The passengers added their cheers and laughter to the cries of the others.
“There!” said Bess triumphantly, leaning back from her fire.
For fire it was, truly, with the red flames dancing upward gleefully through the twigs, and cracking in a manner that said plainly they had come to stay.
Tom generously joined in the applause that followed, and heaped all his hoarded fuel on his sister’s fire, nearly extinguishing it in his zeal.