The reporter rose, and, guided by the lad, proceeded towards the Chimneys. As he did so, Pencroff came up to him, and in an off-hand way asked him if, by chance, he had a match with him. The reporter stopped, felt in his pockets, and finding none, said:— “I had some, but I must have thrown them all away.” Then the sailor called Neb and asked him the same question, receiving a like answer. “Curse it!” cried the sailor, unable to restrain the word. The reporter heard it, and going to him said:—“Have you no matches?” “Not one; and, of course, no fire.” “Ah,” cried Neb, “if he was here, my master, he could soon make one.” The four castaways stood still and looked anxiously at each other. Herbert was the first to break the silence, by saying:— “Mr. Spilett, you are a smoker, you always have matches about you; perhaps you have not searched thoroughly. Look again; a single match will be enough.” The reporter rummaged the pockets of his trowsers, his vest, and coat, and to the great joy of Pencroff, as well as to his own surprise, felt a little sliver of wood caught in the lining of his vest. He could feel it from the outside, but his fingers were unable to disengage it. If this should prove a match, and only one, it was extremely necessary not to rub off the phosphorus. “Let me try,” said the lad. And very adroitly, without breaking it, he drew out this little bit of wood, this precious trifle, which to these poor men was of such great importance. It was uninjured. “One match!” cried Pencroff.” “Why, it is as good as if we had a whole ship-load!” He took it, and, followed by his companions, regained the Chimneys. This tiny bit of wood, which in civilised lands is wasted with indifference, as valueless, it was necessary here to use with the utmost care. The sailor, having assured himself that it was dry, said:— “We must have some paper.” “Here is some,” answered Spilett, who, after a little hesitation, had torn a leaf from his note-book. Pencroff took the bit of paper and knelt down before the fire-place, where some handfuls of grass, leaves, and dry moss had been placed under the faggots in such a way that the air could freely circulate and make the dry wood readily ignite. Then Pencroff shaping the paper into a cone, as pipe-smokers do in the wind, placed it among the moss. Taking, then, a slightly rough stone and wiping it carefully, with beating heart and suspended breath, he gave the match a little rub. The first stroke produced no effect, as Pencroff fearing to break off the phosphorus had not rubbed hard enough. “Ho, I won’t be able to do it,” said he; “my hand shakes—the match will miss—I can’t do it—I don’t want to try!” And, rising, he besought Herbert to undertake it. Certainly, the boy had never in his life been so affected. His heart beat furiously. Prometheus, about to steal the fire from heaven, could not have been more excited.