was strong and skillful. He covered the holes in tile roof with
fallen pieces of bark, laying heavy pieces of wood across them to
hold them in place. Then he lifted the bark shutter into
position and closed the door. Some drops of rain still came in
through the roof, but they were not many, and he would not mind
them for the present. Then he opened the door and began his
hardest task.

He intended to build a fire on the flat stones, and, securing
fallen wood, he stripped off the bark and cut splinters from the
inside. It was slow work and he was very cold, his wet feet
sending chills through him, but be persevered, and the little
heap of dry splinters grew to a respectable size. Then he cut
larger pieces, laying them on one side while he worked with his
flint and steel on the splinters.

Flint and steel are not easily handled even by the most skillful,
and Henry saw the spark leap up and die out many times before it
finally took hold of the end of the tiniest splinter and grew.
He watched it as it ran along the little piece of wood and
ignited another and then another, the beautiful little red and
yellow flames leaping up half a foot in height. Already he felt
the grateful warmth and glow, but he would not let himself
indulge in premature joy. He fed it with larger and larger
pieces until the flames, a deeper and more beautiful red and
yellow, rose at least two feet, and big coals began to form. He
left the door open a while in order that the smoke might go out,
but when the fire had become mostly coals he closed it again, all
except a crack of about six inches, which would serve at once to
let any stray smoke out, and to let plenty of fresh air in.