Inafewminutesthethreehunterswerebeforeacracklingfire.Thecaptainandthereporterwerethere.Pencroftlookedfromonetotheother,hiscapybarainhishand,withoutsayingaword.

           "Well,yes,mybravefellow,"criedthereporter.

           "Fire,realfire,whichwillroastthissplendidpigperfectly,andwewillhaveafeastpresently!"

           "Butwholightedit?"askedPencroft.

           "Thesun!"

           GideonSpilettwasquiterightinhisreply.ItwasthesunwhichhadfurnishedtheheatwhichsoastonishedPencroft.Thesailorcouldscarcelybelievehiseyes,andhewassoamazedthathedidnotthinkofquestioningtheengineer.

           "Hadyouaburning-glass,sir?"askedHerbertofHarding.

           "No,myboy,"repliedhe,"butImadeone."

           Andheshowedtheapparatuswhichservedforaburning-glass.Itwassimplytwoglasseswhichhehadtakenfromhisownandthereporter’swatches.Havingfilledthemwithwaterandrenderedtheiredgesadhesivebymeansofalittleclay,hethusfabricatedaregularburning-glass,which,concentratingthesolarraysonsomeverydrymoss,sooncausedittoblaze.

           Thesailorconsideredtheapparatus;thenhegazedattheengineerwithoutsayingaword,onlyalookplainlyexpressedhisopinionthatifCyrusHardingwasnotamagician,hewascertainlynoordinaryman.Atlastspeechreturnedtohim,andhecried,—