For some time he lay without movement， the genialsunshine pouring upon him and saturating his miserablebody with its warmth. A fine day， he thought. Perhapshe could manage to locate himself. By a painful efforthe rolled over on his side. Below him flowed a wide andsluggish river. Its unfamiliarity puzzled him. Slowly hefollowed it with his eyes， winding in wide sweeps amongthe bleak， bare hills， bleaker and barer and lower-lyingthan any hills he had yet encountered. Slowly， deliberately，without excitement or more than the most casual interest，he followed the course of the strange stream toward thesky-line and saw it emptying into a bright and shining sea.
He was still unexcited. Most unusual， he thought， a visionor a mirage—more likely a vision， a trick of his disorderedmind. He was confirmed in this by sight of a ship lying atanchor in the midst of the shining sea. He closed his eyesfor a while， then opened them. Strange how the visionpersisted！ Yet not strange. He knew there were no seasor ships in the heart of the barren lands， just as he hadknown there was no cartridge in the empty rifle.
He heard a snuffle behind him—a half-choking gasp orcough. Very slowly， because of his exceeding weakness andstiffness， he rolled over on his other side. He could seenothing near at hand， but he waited patiently. Again camethe snuffle and cough， and outlined between two jaggedrocks not a score of feet away he made out the gray headof a wolf. The sharp ears were not pricked so sharply as hehad seen them on other wolves； the eyes were bleared andbloodshot， the head seemed to droop limply and forlornly.
The animal blinked continually in the sunshine. It seemedsick. As he looked it snuffled and coughed again.
This， at least， was real， he thought， and turned on theother side so that he might see the reality of the worldwhich had been veiled from him before by the vision. Butthe sea still shone in the distance and the ship was plainlydiscernible. Was it reality， after all？ He closed his eyes fora long while and thought， and then it came to him. He hadbeen making north by east， away from the Dease Divideand into the Coppermine Valley. This wide and sluggishriver was the Coppermine. That shining sea was the ArcticOcean. That ship was a whaler， strayed east， far east， fromthe mouth of the Mackenzie， and it was lying at anchorin Coronation Gulf. He remembered the Hudson BayCompany chart he had seen long ago， and it was all clearand reasonable to him.
He sat up and turned his attention to immediate affairs.
He had worn through the blanket-wrappings， and his feetwere shapeless lumps of raw meat. His last blanket wasgone. Rifle and knife were both missing. He had lost hishat somewhere， with the bunch of matches in the band，but the matches against his chest were safe and dry insidethe tobacco pouch and oil paper. He looked at his watch.
It marked eleven o’clock and was still running. Evidentlyhe had kept it wound.
He was calm and collected. Though extremely weak， hehad no sensation of pain. He was not hungry. The thoughtof food was not even pleasant to him， and whatever he didwas done by his reason alone. He ripped off his pants’ legsto the knees and bound them about his feet. Somehow hehad succeeded in retaining the tin bucket. He would havesome hot water before he began what he foresaw was tobe a terrible journey to the ship.
His movements were slow. He shook as with a palsy.
When he started to collect dry moss， he found he could notrise to his feet. He tried again and again， then contentedhimself with crawling about on hands and knees. Once hecrawled near to the sick wolf. The animal dragged itselfreluctantly out of his way， licking its chops with a tonguewhich seemed hardly to have the strength to curl. Theman noticed that the tongue was not the customaryhealthy red. It was a yellowish brown and seemed coatedwith a rough and half-dry mucus.
After he had drunk a quart of hot water the manfound he was able to stand， and even to walk as well as adying man might be supposed to walk. Every minute orso he was compelled to rest. His steps were feeble anduncertain， just as the wolf ’s that trailed him were feebleand uncertain； and that night， when the shining sea wasblotted out by blackness， he knew he was nearer to it byno more than four miles.
Throughout the night he heard the cough of the sickwolf， and now and then the squawking of the cariboucalves. There was life all around him， but it was strong life，very much alive and well， and he knew the sick wolf clungto the sick man’s trail in the hope that the man woulddie first. In the morning， on opening his eyes， he beheldit regarding him with a wistful and hungry stare. It stoodcrouched， with tail between its legs， like a miserable andwoe-begone dog. It shivered in the chill morning wind，and grinned dispiritedly when the man spoke to it in avoice that achieved no more than a hoarse whisper.
The sun rose brightly， and all morning the man totteredand fell toward the ship on the shining sea. The weatherwas perfect. It was the brief Indian Summer of the highlatitudes. It might last a week. To-morrow or next day itmight be gone.
In the afternoon the man came upon a trail. It was ofanother man， who did not walk， but who dragged himselfon all fours. The man thought it might be Bill， but hethought in a dull， uninterested way. He had no curiosity.
In fact， sensation and emotion had left him. He was nolonger susceptible to pain. Stomach and nerves had goneto sleep. Yet the life that was in him drove him on. He wasvery weary， but it refused to die. It was because it refusedto die that he still ate muskeg berries and minnows， drankhis hot water， and kept a wary eye on the sick wolf.
