They broke into a run and headed for the dark object in question. It proved to be a tumble-down shed standing back from the road some five or six yards. It was unlighted and their groping hands encountered only a hasp and padlock.
“Not a bit of it,” answered Nelson, lifting the padlock out of the staple. “They knew we were coming.” They pulled one of the folding doors open and slipped inside. “Who’s got a match?” Nelson asked.
“I guess I’ve got some somewhere,” answered Bob. “Yes, here we are.”
In the tiny light they saw that the building had at one time been a blacksmith’s shop. The forge and bellows stood in front of them and the floor was littered here and there with old iron. That the roof was not in the best of repair was evidenced by the numerous puddles on the floor.
“How many matches have you got?” asked Nelson as the light flickered out.
“Don’t light any more yet,” was the reply. “I saw a piece of paper over in the corner there. If it’s dry maybe we can have a fire and be comfortable.” Nelson crossed the floor, stumbling over discarded wagon tires and old bits of iron, and finally found what he was after. The prize, several sheets of newspaper, was quite dry, and he found his way back to the forge with it. “Now let’s have a light, Bob,” he said. “And we’ll see if we can find some splinters or something.” Luck again favored them, for a piece of soft pine board was leaning against the side of the forge, and while the match held out Nelson whittled diligently with his knife. Afterwards, in the darkness, he gathered paper and whittlings together in the center of the old fire bed, found some likely feeling bits of charcoal and coke and demanded another match.
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Bob. Then, “_Thunder!_” he exclaimed.
He had scratched it on a damp place and the head had rubbed off without lighting.
“Was that the last?” Nelson asked anxiously.
“No, one more. You’d better do it, Nel.” And Bob handed the precious match over to him.
“If this goes out, too—!” muttered Nelson.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bob presently.
“The blamed thing hasn’t any head on it,” answered Nelson disgustedly. “I’ve scraped it and scraped it and—oh, pshaw, it’s a toothpick!”
“And just when I had a fire all ready! Look through your pockets again, Bob. Maybe you’ll find another.” There was a minute of silence during which each searched from pocket to pocket, broken finally by an exultant exclamation from Bob.