be called a fearful joy. If a rat or a
mouse had scurried past him at that moment he would have fled
precipitately, but no rat or mouse moved. Probably they were all
frozen, and he had the place entirely to himself--too much to himself.
He began at that point to wish that he had brought another little boy,
or even a girl, with him, to keep up his courage and share in his
triumphant wickedness.

However, as nothing happened, his courage began to return, and he
emptied the contents of the bag on the locker. He knew exactly what to
do, for many a time had he watched the Indian fill his pipe and produce
fire with flint, steel, and tinder. Beginning with the pipe, he filled
it, and then proceeded to strike a light. Of course he found this much
more difficult than he had expected. It seemed so easy in the Indian's
hands--it was so very difficult in his! After skinning his knuckles,
however, chipping his thumb-nail, and knocking the flint out of his hand
several times, he succeeded in making the right stroke, and a shower of
sparks rewarded his perseverance.

This was charming. The place was so dark that the sparks seemed as
large and bright as stars, while the darkness that followed was deeper
by contrast. Forgetting the pipe and tobacco in this new-found joy,
Doocheek kept pelting away at the flint, sending showers of sparks past
his knees, and some of them were so large that they even fell upon the
deck before going out.

But an abrupt stop was put to his amusement. Whether it was that
something or other in the sides of the ship had given way, or the
energetic action of the boy had shaken some fastening loose, we cannot
say, but just as he was in the act of raising his hand for another
_feu-de-joie_, a shelf over his head gave way, and a perfect avalanche
of pots, pans, and noisy tin articles came down with a hideous crash on
the deck!

To leap from the locker like a bomb-shell, and go straight up the
hatchway like a rocket, was only natural. Doocheek did that as far as
was compatible with flesh and blood. He could not remember afterwards
by what process he reached the ice and found himself on the skirts of
the village. But at that point his self-control returned, and he
sauntered home--flushed, it is true, and a little winded, yet with the
_nonchalant_ air of a man who had just stepped out to "have a look at
the weather." His conscience was rather troubled, it is true, when he
thought of the fire-bag and