He had fed the day before mostly on most unsatisfying emotions, and now he began to feel the need of something more solid.

So he crept back along the slope to find out what there was for breakfast.
His stores lay about the floor of his resting-place, just as he had turned them out in the night; a couple of long loaves, a good-sized piece of raw bacon, and another of boiled pork which he thought he recognized, some butter in a cloth, a bottle which looked as if it might contain spirits, the powder-flask, and a small linen bag containing bullets, snail-shot, and percussion caps.

These, with Bernel's gun and the blanket, and the old woollen cloak, which he recognized as Mr.
Hamon's roquelaure, and his pipe, and the tobacco he happened to have in his pouch, constituted, for the time being, his worldly possessions.
He spread his cloak and blanket in the sun to dry and air, and, doubtful whether his rock would supply any further provision or when more might reach him from Sark, he proceeded to make a somewhat restricted meal of bread and cold pork.
The raw bacon suggested something of a problem.

To cook it he must have a fire.

To have a fire he must have fuel; his tinder-box he always carried, of course, for the new matches had not yet penetrated to Sark.
Moreover, to light a fire might be dangerous as liable to attract attention, unless he could do it under cover where no stray gleams could get out.
He pondered these matters as he ate, spinning out his exiguous meal to its uttermost crumb to make it as satisfying as possible.
He saw his way at once to perfecting his cover.