He struck a light and kindled one of his torches, and the dead man
leaped out of the darkness at him as before. That gave him another idea.
Propping up his light on the floor, he emptied package after package of
the powdered tobacco into the tunnel, and wafted it down towards the
entrance with his jacket. Then with his knife he cut the lashings from
the dead man's hands and feet, and carried him across--he was very
light, for all his substance had long since withered out of him--and
laid him in the tunnel as though he was making his way out.
If he knew anything of Sark men and miners, he felt fairly secure for
some time to come, so he sat himself down, as far as possible from the
snuff, and made such a meal as was possible off puffins' eggs, mixed
good and bad and unredeemed by any palliating odour and flavour. They
were not appetising, but they stayed his stomach for the time being.
It was only then that he remembered that he had left his gun and
powder-flask behind him. He had placed them on a ledge just inside the
mouth of the tunnel, and in his haste had forgotten to pick them up.
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