The Mysterious Island. Jules Verne

think so. In any event, there was only one course to take: wait for the return of Neb and the reporter. But it was necessary to forget about the meal of cooked eggs that they had wanted to prepare for them; a diet of raw meat either for themselves or for the others was not a cheery prospect.

      Before returning to the Chimneys, the sailor and Harbert collected a new batch of lithodomes in case a fire could not be started. They went back silently.

      Pencroff, his eyes fixed on the ground, was still looking for the lost box. He even walked again along the left bank of the river from the mouth to the bend where the raft of wood had been moored. He returned to the upper plateau. He went over it in every direction, searching among the tall grass along the edge of the forest—all in vain.

      It was five o’clock in the evening when Harbert and he returned to the Chimneys. Needless to say, they rummaged through the darkest corners of the passageways, but they ultimately had to give up.

      About six o’clock, when the sun was disappearing behind the highlands of the west, Harbert, who was pacing back and forth on the shore, signaled the return of Neb and Gideon Spilett.

      They were returning alone! … His heart skipped a beat. The sailor had not been wrong in his misgivings. The engineer Cyrus Smith had not been found!

      On arriving, the reporter sat down on a rock without saying a word. Exhausted and half-dead with hunger, he did not have the strength to say anything.

      Neb’s red eyes showed that he had lost all hope!

      The reporter told them about the search they had undertaken to find Cyrus Smith. Neb and he had followed the coastline for a distance of eight miles, well beyond the point where the next-to-last fall of the balloon occurred, the fall that was followed by the disappearance of the engineer and the dog Top. The shore was deserted. Not a trace, not a single footprint. Not a stone overturned, not a sign on the sand, no mark of the human foot along this entire part of the coast. It was evident that no inhabitant ever frequented this part of the island. The ocean was just as deserted as the beach, and it was there, several hundred feet from shore, that the engineer must have met his fate.

      Then Neb got up and voiced the sentiments of hope that were bottled up within him:

      “No!” he shouted. “No! He is not dead! No! That cannot be! He! Come now! It might happen to me or anyone else but him! Never! He could get out of any scrape! …”

       The reporter sat down on a rock without saying a word.

      Then his strength left him.

      “Ah! I can do no more,” he murmured.

      Harbert ran to him.

      “Neb,” said the lad, “we’ll find him! God will return him! But you’re hungry. Eat a little, I beg you.” And, while speaking, he offered the poor Negro a handful of shellfish, a meager and insufficient meal.

      Neb had not eaten for many hours but he refused. Deprived of his master he could not, he did not want to live!

      As for Gideon Spilett, he devoured the mollusks. Then he lay down on the sand in front of a rock, exhausted but calm. Harbert came up to him and offered his hand:

      “Sir,” he said, “we’ve discovered a shelter where you’ll be better off than here. It’s getting dark. Come along and get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll see …”

      The reporter got up and, guided by the lad, he went to the Chimneys.

      Pencroff came over and asked him in a casual voice if by chance he had a match on him.

      The reporter stopped, looked in his pockets, and didn’t find any. He said, “I had some but I must have thrown them away …”

      The sailor asked Neb the same question and got the same reply.

      “Confound it!” cried the sailor. The reporter heard him and said, “No matches?”

      “Not a single one, and so we can have no fire!”

      “Ah!” exclaimed Neb, “If my master were here, he’d know how to make one!”

      The four castaways stood there and looked at each other. Harbert broke the silence by saying:

      “Mr. Spilett, you’re a smoker. You always have matches on you. Perhaps you have not looked thoroughly. Look again. A single match will suffice.”

      The reporter rummaged again through his pants pockets, his waistcoat, his overcoat and finally, to Pencroff’s great joy and to his own surprise, he felt a sliver of wood caught in the lining of his waistcoat. His fingers had grasped this small piece of wood through the coat’s fabric, but he could not get it out. Since this was probably a match, and their only one, they had to be careful not to rub away the phosphorous.

      “Will you let me try?” the lad asked him.

      Very skillfully, without breaking it, Harbert managed to remove this matchstick, this precious trifle which, for these unfortunate people, was of such crucial importance. It was intact.

      “A match!” shouted Pencroff. “Ah! It’s as if we had a whole cargo!”

      He took the match and, followed by his companions, went back to the Chimneys.

      This small sliver of wood, which in civilized countries is treated with indifference, would need to be used here with extreme care. The sailor assured himself that it was really dry. That done, he said, “We need some paper.”

      “Here,” replied Gideon Spilett who, after some hesitation, tore out a leaf from his notebook.

      Pencroff took the piece of paper and squatted in front of the fireplace. Several handfuls of grass, leaves, and dry moss were placed under the faggots and arranged so the air could easily circulate, letting the dead wood catch fire quickly.

      Then Pencroff folded the paper in the form of a cone, as smokers do in a high wind, and placed it among the mosses. Next, taking a rather flat stone, he wiped it with care. With his heart beating fast, he gently rubbed the stone without breathing.

      The first rubbing produced no effect. Pencroff had not applied enough pressure, afraid that he would scratch away the phosphorous.

      “No, I can’t do it,” he said, “my hand trembles … The match didn’t catch fire … I can’t … I don’t want to,” and getting up he asked Harbert to take his place.

      Certainly, in all his life, the lad had never been so nervous. His heart pounded. Prometheus going to steal fire from Heaven had not been more anxious. He did not hesitate, however, and quickly rubbed the stone. They heard a sputter, then a weak blue flame spurted out producing a sharp flame. Harbert gently turned the match so as to feed the flame, then he slipped it into the paper cone. The paper caught fire in a few seconds and then the moss began to burn.

      Several moments later, the dry wood crackled, and a joyful flame, fanned by the sailor’s vigorous breath, began to glow in the darkness.

      “Truly,” exclaimed Pencroff, getting up. “I was never so nervous in my life!”

      The fire burned well on the fireplace of flat stones. The smoke went up easily through the narrow passage, the chimney drew the smoke, and a pleasant warmth soon filled the shelter.

      As to the fire, they had to take care not to let it burn out and to always keep some embers under the ashes. But this was merely a matter of care and attention since there was no shortage of wood, and their supply could always be renewed at their convenience. Pencroff first intended to use the fireplace to prepare a supper more nourishing than a dish of lithodomes. Harbert brought over two dozen eggs. The reporter, resting in a corner, watched these preparations without saying a word. Three thoughts were on his mind. Was Cyrus still alive? If he was alive where could he be? If he had survived his fall, why had he not made his existence known? As for Neb, he prowled the beach like a body without a soul.