It is peat smoke you smell." "Why, then, there must be fire somewhere!" said Bertric, leaping up.
"Smouldering peat, certainly," I said, rising with him.

"Under yon fagots is the only place I can think of as possible--or under the deck planking." We went to the penthouse, and climbed on the piles of fagots on the port side.

When we trimmed sail afresh we had hauled it along the starboard, and had at least smelt nothing of the smoke there.

But now we set to work and hove the fagots overboard, setting the handsome sledge from off them forward out of the way.

The peat smoke grew stronger as we lowered the pile, and at last a little cloud of blue smoke came up to us.
"No hurry," said I to Bertric, who was anxious, "there is no wind to fan the turfs into flame.