Page 279 - for-the-term-of-his-natural-life

bark on which he had been sitting, moved to the bows of
the boat.
‘They will see this! Tear up that board! So! Now, place it
thus across the bows. Hack off that sapling end! Now that
dry twist of osier! Never mind the boat, man; we can afford
to leave her now. Tear off that outer strip of hide. See, the
wood beneath is dry! Quick—you are so slow.’
‘What are you going to do?’ cried Frere, aghast, as the
convict tore up all the dry wood he could find, and heaped
it on the sheet of bark placed on the bows.
‘To make a fire! See!’
Frere began to comprehend. ‘I have three matches left,’
he said, fumbling, with trembling fingers, in his pocket. ‘I
wrapped them in one of the leaves of the book to keep them
dry.’
The word ‘book’ was a new inspiration. Rufus Dawes
seized upon the English History, which had already done
such service, tore out the drier leaves in the middle of the
volume, and carefully added them to the little heap of
touchwood.
‘Now, steady!’
The match was struck and lighted. The paper, after a
few obstinate curlings, caught fire, and Frere, blowing the
young flame with his breath, the bark began to burn. He
piled upon the fire all that was combustible, the hides be-
gan to shrivel, and a great column of black smoke rose up
over the sea.
‘Sylvia!’ cried Rufus Dawes. ‘Sylvia! My darling! You are
saved!’

For the Term of His Natural Life