All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur Creekhad told him about it the previous fall， and now he wasappreciating the advice. Already all sensation had gone outof his feet. To build the fire he had been forced to removehis mittens， and the fingers had quickly gone numb. Hispace of four miles an hour had kept his heart pumpingblood to the surface of his body and to all the extremities.
But the instant he stopped， the action of the pump easeddown. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of theplanet， and he， being on that unprotected tip， receivedthe full force of the blow. The blood of his body recoiledbefore it. The blood was alive， like the dog， and like thedog it wanted to hide away and cover itself up from thefearful cold. So long as he walked four miles an hour， hepumped that blood， willy-nilly， to the surface； but now itebbed away and sank down into the recesses of his body.
The extremities were the first to feel its absence. His wetfeet froze the faster， and his exposed fingers numbed thefaster， though they had not yet begun to freeze. Nose andcheeks were already freezing， while the skin of all his bodychilled as it lost its blood.
But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be onlytouched by the frost， for the fire was beginning to burnwith strength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of hisfinger. In another minute he would be able to feed it withbranches the size of his wrist， and then he could removehis wet foot-gear， and， while it dried， he could keep hisnaked feet warm by the fire， rubbing them at first， ofcourse， with snow. The fire was a success. He was safe.
He remembered the advice of the old-timer on SulphurCreek， and smiled. The old-timer had been very seriousin laying down the law that no man must travel alone inthe Klondike after fifty below. Well， here he was； he hadhad the accident； he was alone； and he had saved himself.
Those old-timers were rather womanish， some of them， hethought. All a man had to do was to keep his head， and hewas all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone.
But it was surprising， the rapidity with which his cheeksand nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingerscould go lifeless in so short a time. Lifeless they were， forhe could scarcely make them move together to grip a twig，and they seemed remote from his body and from him.
When he touched a twig， he had to look and see whetheror not he had hold of it. The wires were pretty well downbetween him and his finger-ends.
All of which counted for little. There was the fire，snapping and crackling and promising life with everydancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. Theywere coated with ice； the thick German socks were likesheaths of iron halfway to the knees； and the moccasinstrings were like rods of steel all twisted and knotted asby some conflagration. For a moment he tugged with hisnumb fingers， then， realizing the folly of it， he drew hissheath-knife.
But before he could cut the strings， it happened. It washis own fault or， rather， his mistake. He should not havebuilt the fire under the spruce tree. He should have builtit in the open. But it had been easier to pull the twigsfrom the brush and drop them directly on the fire. Nowthe tree under which he had done this carried a weight ofsnow on its boughs. No wind had blown for weeks， andeach bough was fully freighted. Each time he had pulled atwig he had communicated a slight agitation to the tree—an imperceptible agitation， so far as he was concerned， butan agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. Highup in the tree one bough capsized its load of snow. Thisfell on the boughs beneath， capsizing them. This processcontinued， spreading out and involving the whole tree. Itgrew like an avalanche， and it descended without warningupon the man and the fire， and the fire was blotted out！
Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disorderedsnow.
The man was shocked. It was as though he had justheard his own sentence of death. For a moment he satand stared at the spot where the fire had been. Then hegrew very calm. Perhaps the old-timer on Sulphur Creekwas right. If he had only had a trail-mate he would havebeen in no danger now. The trail-mate could have builtthe fire. Well， it was up to him to build the fire over again，and this second time there must be no failure. Even if hesucceeded， he would most likely lose some toes. His feetmust be badly frozen by now， and there would be sometime before the second fire was ready.
Such were his thoughts， but he did not sit and thinkthem. He was busy all the time they were passing throughhis mind. He made a new foundation for a fire， this timein the open， where no treacherous tree could blot itout. Next， he gathered dry grasses and tiny twigs fromthe high-water flotsam. He could not bring his fingerstogether to pull them out， but he was able to gather themby the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs andbits of green moss that were undesirable， but it was thebest he could do. He worked methodically， even collectingan armful of the larger branches to be used later when thefire gathered strength. And all the while the dog sat andwatched him， a certain yearning wistfulness in its eyes， forit looked upon him as the fire-provider， and the fire wasslow in coming.
