By-and-by there was quite a little heap of brown wood-dust collected at one end of the groove. Then getting on his knees and grasping his broom-stick-piece energetically in both hands, he pushed it to and fro in the groove with all his force and speed, until suddenly he flung away the stick, and stooping over the little pile of dust, he covered it tenderly with both hands hollowed, and bending his head over it breathed upon it most gently. And by imperceptible degrees there arose from it a slender spiral of smoke.
His right hand stole to his pocket, and fetched therefrom a few slivers of wood, which he coyly introduced under the shelter of his other hand, until suddenly the Red Flower blossomed--there was fire. Now it only needed feeding to rise gloriously into that gloomy air. To this end Mr. Lowrie worked like a Chinaman, until within an hour he had a pile of burning driftwood, four feet high and fully six feet round, sending up ruddy tongues of flame and a column of smoke like a palm tree.
One by one the adventurers returned with dour faces, empty-handed save for a sea-bird’s egg or two, a few fronds of seaweed which the bearers insisted was “dulse” (the edible fucus), and a brace of birds that looked scarcely enough to furnish an appetizer for one. But just as a stray sunbeam darted down upon the little gathering, while they huddled round the grateful warmth, there was a hoarse shout. All started, for it was the skipper’s voice roaring--
“C’way here an’ lend a han’, ye louns. Fat’r ye aal shtannin there toasting yer taes fur like a pickle o’ weans juist waitin’ on yer mithers tae cry on ye tae come ben fur yer breakfas’?”
The men at once obeyed the familiar command, finding the skipper and the cook wrestling with a huge case, that was so stoutly built that not a plank of it had come adrift. When they had man-handled it over the rugged ground to within reach of the warmth the skipper said--
“Ah divna ken fats intilt, bit Ah min fine that Mester Broon, fan he shipped it, said it wis somethin’ Ah wis tae tak unco care o’. And so ’twis lasht under th’ s’loon table. C’wa, le’s open’t; please God ther may be somethin’ useful inside o’t.”
Willing hands, regardless of the loss of skin from knuckles and arms, wrought at the task; but so stoutly did the case resist their efforts that it was long before they had stripped off the stout planking and revealed an air-tight lining of thick tin. This was attacked with sheath-knives, and, after much hacking and breaking of cutlery, yielded and exposed a number of queer-looking parcels most carefully packed. On the top was a letter. It ran as follows:--