But then, in the event of a certain contingency which loomed before Pasco’s inner eye, there would be no wool to be disposed of, it would have been reduced to—even to himself he would not complete the sentence. Would that matter? The insurance would more than cover the loss, and he would be able to dispose of the oak. “Will you have a pipe?” asked Coaker, and after having stuffed his tobacco into his bowl, he produced a match-box and struck a light with a lucifer. At the period of this tale lucifer matches were a novelty. The tinder-box was in general use for domestic purposes, and men carried about with them small metal boxes, armed with a steel side, containing amadou and flint, for kindling their pipes and cigars. “What do you call that?” asked Pepperill, observing the proceedings of the farmer. “Ah! I reckon this be one of the finest inventions of the times. Have you never seen or read of this yet? It is better than the phosphorus bottle, and than Holmberg’s box. Look here. This little stick has got some chemical stuff, sulphur and something else, phosphorus, I believe, at the end; all you have to do is to rub, and the whole bursts into flame.” Pepperill took the box, turned it over, opened it, looked at and smelt the matches. “Are they terrible expensive?” he asked musingly. “Oh no. There, as you are curious about it, I’ll give you the box, and you can show it to your missus.” Pasco put out his hand to shake that of Coaker. It was cold and trembled. The devil was playing a game with him. He was offering him a reprieve from his embarrassments, and at the same time thrusting him forward to the accomplishment of the evil deed on which he brooded, and was placing in his hands the means of executing it. Pasco sank into deep thought, looking at the match-box and playing with it, now opening, then shutting it. “I’m depriving you of it,” he said. “Not a bit. I have a dozen. They are just brought in from London and are selling off amazin’ fast at Ashburton. In a week they’ll be all over the country and the tinder boxes chucked away.” “Are they dangerous—I mean to carry about with one?” asked Pasco. “Not a bit. There is no fire till you strike it out.” Then Pepperill again fell into meditation. He put the box into his pocket, and sat looking before him into space, speechless. Suddenly a shock went through his frame. He had been touched on the arm by Coaker. “What is it?” he asked, with quivering lips. “Look at the landlord,” said the farmer in an undertone, with his hand to his mouth. “Do you know what folks say of him?” Pasco asked with his eyes. He could not frame the words with his lips. “They do say that he set fire to the old place, so as to get the insurance money for rebuilding in grand style.” “A tramp did it—got into the cellar,” said Pasco in a whisper. “Nobody never saw thickey tramp come, and sure and sartain nobody never saw him go. I don’t believe in the tramp. He did it himself.”