He lighted another match; it sputtered and went out.

He had two matches left.  To what better use could he put them than to make them light him as far as possible on his way?  He struck one of them, it blazed up, and with it he lighted the stick of the imperfect one which he had not thrown away.  He held them up before him, and, shielding the blaze with his hand, he moved rapidly down the narrow passage.

He knew that he was still in the heading and that if he could but follow it he would, in time, reach the slope.

His light soon gave out; darkness surrounded him again, but he kept on.

He moved from side to side of the passage, feeling his way.

His journey was slow, very slow and painful, but it was better to keep going, he knew that.

He had one match left but he dared not light it.  He wanted to reserve that for a case of greater need.

The emergency that called for its use soon arose.

The heading seemed to have grown suddenly wider.  He went back and forth across it and touched all the pillars carefully.  The way was divided.  One branch of the gallery bore to the right and another to the left.

Straight ahead was a solid wall.  Ralph did not know which passage to enter.  To go into one would be to go still farther and deeper into the recesses of the old mine; to go into the other would be to go toward the slope, toward the outer world, toward his mother and his home.

If he could only see he could choose more wisely.

Had the necessity arisen for the use of his last match?

He hesitated.  He sat down to rest and to consider the question.  It was hard to think, though, with all that whirling and buzzing in his fever-stricken brain.

Then a scheme entered his mind, a brilliant scheme by which he should get more light.  He resolved to act upon it without delay.  He transferred everything from the pockets of his jacket to those of his waistcoat.  Then he removed this outer garment, tore a portion of it into strips, and held it in one hand while he made ready to light his last match.  He held his breath while he struck it.

It did not light.

He waited a minute to think.  Then he struck it again, this time with success.  He touched it to the rags of his coat, and the oil-soaked cloth flashed brightly into flame.  He held the blazing jacket in his hand, looked around him for one moment to choose his way, and then began to run.

It was a travesty on running, to be sure, but it was the best he could do.  He staggered and stumbled; he lurched rapidly ahead for a little space and then moved with halting steps.  His limbs grew weak, his breath came in gasps, and the pain in his side was cutting him like a knife.

But he thought he was going very rapidly.  He could see so nicely too.  The flames, fanned by the motion, curled up and licked his hand and wrist, but he scarcely knew it.