They landed with ease on this occasion on the western side of the rock, and then each man addressed himself to his special duty with energy.  The time during which they could work being short, they had to make the most of it.

“Now, lad,” said the smith, “bring along the bellows and follow me.  Mind yer footin’, for it’s slippery walkin’ on them tangle-covered rocks.  I’ve seen some ugly falls here already.”

“Have any bones been broken yet?” enquired Ruby, as he shouldered the large pair of bellows, and followed the smith cautiously over the rocks.

“Not yet; but there’s been an awful lot o’ pipes smashed.  If it goes on as it has been, we’ll have to take to metal ones.  Here we are, Ruby, this is the forge, and I’ll be bound you never worked at such a queer one before.  Hallo!  Bremner!” he shouted to one of the men.

“That’s me,” answered Bremner.

“Bring your irons as soon as you like!  I’m about ready for you.”

“Ay, ay, here they are,” said the man, advancing with an armful of picks, chisels, and other tools, which required sharpening.

He slipped and fell as he spoke, sending all the tools into the bottom of a pool of water; but, being used to such mishaps, he arose, joined in the laugh raised against him, and soon fished up the tools.

“What’s wrong!” asked Ruby, pausing in the work of fixing the bellows, on observing that the smith’s face grew pale, and his general expression became one of horror.  “Not sea-sick, I hope?”

“Sea-sick,” gasped the smith, slapping all his pockets hurriedly, “it’s worse than that; I’ve forgot the matches!”

Ruby looked perplexed, but had no consolation to offer.

“That’s like you,” cried Bremner, who, being one of the principal masons, had to attend chiefly to the digging out of the foundation-pit of the building, and knew that his tools could not be sharpened unless the forge fire could be lighted.

“Suppose you hammer a nail red-hot,” suggested one of the men, who was disposed to make game of the smith.

“I’ll hammer your nose red-hot,” replied Dove, with a most undovelike scowl, “I could swear that I put them matches in my pocket before I started.”

“No, you didn’t,” said George Forsyth, one of the carpenters—­a tall loose-jointed man, who was chiefly noted for his dislike to getting into and out of boats, and climbing up the sides of ships, because of his lengthy and unwieldy figure—­“No, you didn’t, you turtle-dove, you forgot to take them; but I remembered to do it for you; so there, get up your fire, and confess yourself indebted to me for life.”

“I’m indebted to ’ee for fire,” said the smith, grasping the matches eagerly.  “Thank’ee, lad, you’re a true Briton.”

“A tall ’un, rather,” suggested Bremner.

“Wot never, never, never will be a slave,” sang another of the men.

“Come, laddies, git up the fire.  Time an’ tide waits for naebody,” said John Watt, one of the quarriers.  “We’ll want thae tools before lang.”