“We will set to work at once to rig up a tent under the shade of these trees,” the sailor said, “it will keep the night mists off better than branches; and we will bring another sail over to cover the ground and keep the mist from rising inside.” “What are we going to cook our junk in?” Joyce asked suddenly. The sailor looked at his companion in dismay. “Dash my timbers,” he said, “I never thought of that; that is a go. Perhaps we can manage it in the native way: they boil things by putting water into a big shell, and dropping hot stones into it until it boils. We have not got any shells, but we might find a hollow in the rock that will hold water.” “That is all very well, Wilcox; but how are we going to heat our stones?” “You have done me there, Master Stephen,” the sailor said, in a tone of utter disgust; “we have not got flint or tinder.” “We might manage the tinder easily enough,” Stephen said, “by using rotten wood; but tinder is of no use without steel. We shall have to eat our biscuits without meat, Wilcox, unless we can light a fire by rubbing two sticks together.” “That ain’t to be done, sir; I have seen white men try it over and over again, and I have tried it myself, but it ain’t no manner of good. The Almighty has given us a lot of knowledge that he has not given to these black fellows, but he has balanced it up by giving them the knack of lighting a fire which he has not given to us. I never heard of a white man who could make fire in that way.” “Well, I will have a try, anyhow,” Joyce said; “there can’t be anything special about a Malay that he can make fire more than a white man.” “You may try as much as you like, Master Joyce,” the sailor said, shaking his head solemnly, “but mark my words, you won’t be able to do it. It is a pity, too, for with all this wood that has been drying as if on purpose for us, we could have had one without being afraid of the smoke.” “Well, we must not grumble; we have got a lot to be thankful for; and we can do without meat well enough.” “Yes, Mr. Joyce,” Wilcox said reluctantly; “only, you know, I wish we had not come across that cask of salt junk, then one would never have thought about it; but seeing it there, and not being able to cook it, is enough to make a saint grumble, I should say.” “Not if he were really a saint, Wilcox. However, don’t make up your mind that you are not going to get your teeth into that junk till I give up the hope of making a fire.” “Well, sir, we will roll the three barrels over here, and then set about rigging up the tent. There is nothing like being busy.”