He had no fire that night， nor hot water， and crawledunder his blanket to sleep the broken hunger-sleep. Thesnow turned into a cold rain. He awakened many timesto feel it falling on his upturned face. Day came—a grayday and no sun. It had ceased raining. The keenness of hishunger had departed. Sensibility， as far as concerned theyearning for food， had been exhausted. There was a dull，heavy ache in his stomach， but it did not bother him somuch. He was more rational， and once more he was chieflyinterested in the land of little sticks and the cache by theriver Dease.
He ripped the remnant of one of his blankets into stripsand bound his bleeding feet. Also， he recinched the injuredankle and prepared himself for a day of travel. When hecame to his pack， he paused long over the squat moosehidesack， but in the end it went with him.
The snow had melted under the rain， and only thehilltops showed white. The sun came out， and hesucceeded in locating the points of the compass， thoughhe knew now that he was lost. Perhaps， in his previousdays’ wanderings， he had edged away too far to the left.
He now bore off to the right to counteract the possibledeviation from his true course.
Though the hunger pangs were no longer so exquisite，he realized that he was weak. He was compelled to pausefor frequent rests， when he attacked the muskeg berriesand rush-grass patches. His tongue felt dry and large， asthough covered with a fine hairy growth， and it tastedbitter in his mouth. His heart gave him a great deal oftrouble. When he had travelled a few minutes it wouldbegin a remorseless thump， thump， thump， and then leapup and away in a painful flutter of beats that choked himand made him go faint and dizzy.
In the middle of the day he found two minnows in alarge pool. It was impossible to bale it， but he was calmernow and managed to catch them in his tin bucket. Theywere no longer than his little finger， but he was notparticularly hungry. The dull ache in his stomach hadbeen growing duller and fainter. It seemed almost that hisstomach was dozing. He ate the fish raw， masticating withpainstaking care， for the eating was an act of pure reason.
While he had no desire to eat， he knew that he must eatto live.
In the evening he caught three more minnows， eatingtwo and saving the third for breakfast. The sun had driedstray shreds of moss， and he was able to warm himselfwith hot water. He had not covered more than ten milesthat day； and the next day， travelling whenever his heartpermitted him， he covered no more than five miles. Buthis stomach did not give him the slightest uneasiness. Ithad gone to sleep. He was in a strange country， too， andthe caribou were growing more plentiful， also the wolves.
Often their yelps drifted across the desolation， and oncehe saw three of them slinking away before his path.
Another night； and in the morning， being more rational，he untied the leather string that fastened the squat moosehidesack. From its open mouth poured a yellow streamof coarse gold-dust and nuggets. He roughly divided thegold in halves， caching one half on a prominent ledge，wrapped in a piece of blanket， and returning the otherhalf to the sack. He also began to use strips of the oneremaining blanket for his feet. He still clung to his gun，for there were cartridges in that cache by the river Dease.
This was a day of fog， and this day hunger awoke in himagain. He was very weak and was afflicted with a giddinesswhich at times blinded him. It was no uncommon thingnow for him to stumble and fall； and stumbling once， hefell squarely into a ptarmigan nest. There were four newlyhatched chicks， a day old—little specks of pulsating lifeno more than a mouthful； and he ate them ravenously，thrusting them alive into his mouth and crunching themlike egg-shells between his teeth. The mother ptarmiganbeat about him with great outcry. He used his gun as aclub with which to knock her over， but she dodged out ofreach. He threw stones at her and with one chance shotbroke a wing. Then she fluttered away， running， trailingthe broken wing， with him in pursuit.
The little chicks had no more than whetted his appetite.
He hopped and bobbed clumsily along on his injuredankle， throwing stones and screaming hoarsely at times； atother times hopping and bobbing silently along， pickinghimself up grimly and patiently when he fell， or rubbinghis eyes with his hand when the giddiness threatened tooverpower him.
The chase led him across swampy ground in the bottomof the valley， and he came upon footprints in the soggymoss. They were not his own—he could see that. Theymust be Bill’s. But he could not stop， for the motherptarmigan was running on. He would catch her first， thenhe would return and investigate.
He exhausted the mother ptarmigan； but he exhaustedhimself. She lay panting on her side. He lay panting onhis side， a dozen feet away， unable to crawl to her. Andas he recovered she recovered， fluttering out of reach ashis hungry hand went out to her. The chase was resumed.
Night settled down and she escaped. He stumbled fromweakness and pitched head foremost on his face， cuttinghis cheek， his pack upon his back. He did not move fora long while； then he rolled over on his side， wound hiswatch， and lay there until morning.
Another day of fog. Half of his last blanket had goneinto foot-wrappings. He failed to pick up Bill’s trail.
It did not matter. His hunger was driving him toocompellingly—only—only he wondered if Bill， too， werelost. By midday the irk of his pack became too oppressive.
Again he divided the gold， this time merely spilling half ofit on the ground. In the afternoon he threw the rest of itaway， there remaining to him only the half-blanket， the tinbucket， and the rifle.
