Pete Jenkins went all the way to New York. By the time he arrived there were four of the nine left. The thin match was still in her corner, wedged in. It was better for her there, on the whole, she had come to believe. The pressure of the feeling against her had sent up strongly into her head the idea of her destiny. This was, of course, only the common destiny of all matches--to set something on fire. It might be anything, from a joss-stick to a great conflagration; but it was to start fire. That, she knew by instinct, was the great thing. What difference did it really make, she said over and over again to herself, that she was thin, had a crooked head, and a streak all down one side! There lay within her power the possibility of anything--anything, that is, that could come of setting something on fire. Patience! When it came her turn, if it ever did come, to be taken out and scraped along the side of the box, she must light, and blaze up, and burn clearly and steadily. She must not fail. And it would be so easy to fail! Many a match had failed, and for many reasons. There was the possibility of dampness, that greatest of all match-dreads. Then, the outside of the box would be sadly worn down by now, with most of the matches gone. The first out, those nearest to the top as fate at the hands of the packer adjusted it for them, always had the best chance. Then, too, she might break! She would be especially likely to break, being so very thin; or her paraffin-soaked neck, which was the thinnest part of her, might have got too dry to burn properly! But there was no way to regulate these chances. A match could only wait and hope, and the thin match waited and hoped with a good courage, resolved to light quickly and burn as clearly and steadily as she possibly could, if ever her chance should come. Pete, it seemed, had no particular use for the remaining matches in this box. He had, in fact, quite forgotten them. For the box, very weak and wobbly now, had been packed inside the pocket of a jacket which Pete had replaced with a sweater a day out from New York and placed inside a gripsack. Pete was on board a ship now, a ship bound to Labrador, and he was using old-fashioned sulfur matches to light his pipe against the wind up on deck. It occurred to the thin match that she might never get her chance, even though the box should be resurrected, because she was quite out of sight. Even if someone opened the box again, she was wedged in so tightly that she might not even be seen. Well, there was no use in borrowing trouble! She knew she could not regulate the universe. She could only wait, and so she waited, and waited.... * * * * * It was more than four months before the crushed and battered old box, so worn and greasy now that the printing on the cover could hardly have been read by even the most learned Scandinavian, was brought to light again in Pete’s cabin on the upper reaches of the Nasquapee.