surprise. "Why, we should hardly know how to make a fire without
it. It is peat smoke you smell."

"Why, then, there must be fire somewhere!" said Bertric, leaping
up.

"Smouldering peat, certainly," I said, rising with him. "Under yon
fagots is the only place I can think of as possible--or under the
deck planking."

We went to the penthouse, and climbed on the piles of fagots on the
port side. When we trimmed sail afresh we had hauled it along the
starboard, and had at least smelt nothing of the smoke there. But
now we set to work and hove the fagots overboard, setting the
handsome sledge from off them forward out of the way. The peat
smoke grew stronger as we lowered the pile, and at last a little
cloud of blue smoke came up to us.

"No hurry," said I to Bertric, who was anxious, "there is no wind
to fan the turfs into flame. It can but smoulder slowly."

"It is here," cried Dalfin, lifting a fagot whose under side was
scorched and blackened, though more by heat and smoke than flame.

Under that was a bushel or so of peat, the midst of which was but a
black hollow, round the sides of which the fire glowed red, only
waiting for the wind to fan it into life. The turfs blazed a little
in the draught as we cast them overboard quickly. Then we sent all
the fagots on that side after them.