leaped merrily through the driftwood, crackling as they twisted and flung themselves upward.
Garth brought out the pan, and Joan filled it from the brown jug.
"A pannikin of rum, mate," he murmured, as the water chugged out.
"Ay, to be sure, sir," said Joan, thrusting the pan into the fire.
She intended to make some soup from bouillon cubes, an innovation at Pemberley picnics. Holding the pan over the flames without cooking the hand which held it proved to be a difficult matter. The mariners took very short shifts at it, crouching to windward and propping the handle on a stone. The water boiled with the surprising suddenness of bonfire cookery, and Joan withdrew her toasted fingers, balanced the pan on a rock, and triumphantly made the soup. It was the hottest soup that either of them had ever tried to taste, and they were obliged to eat sandwiches and look at the sunset, while it cooled.
"It's nice being out here at such a queer time," said Garth. "I never was before. We always have to go home, because of the Light. We've had a rare exciting adventure, haven't
