s only course was to push on step by step.

The truth suddenly dawned upon him that he was face to face with one of
the most uncomfortable situations of all his years in the forest. He
didn't believe he would be able to make the cabin before the fall of
night; if indeed he were able to complete the weary miles, it would only
be by dint of the most cruel and exhausting labor. He carried no
blankets, and although with the aid of his camp ax he could keep some
sort of a fire, a night out in the snow and the cold was not an
experience to think of lightly.

Bill knew very well just what capabilities for effort the human body
holds. It has certain definite limits. After a few hours of such labor
as this the body is tired,--tired clear through and aching in its
muscles. Despondency takes the place of hope, the step is somewhat
faltering, hunger assails and is forgotten, even the solace of tobacco
is denied because the hand is too tired to grope for and fill the pipe.
Thereafter comes a deeper stage of fatigue, one in which every separate
step requires a distinct and tragic effort of will. The perceptions are
blunted, the uncertainty of footfall is more pronounced, the stark
reality of the winter woods partakes of a dreamlike quality. Then comes
utter and complete exhaustion.

In its first stages there can still be a few dragging or staggering
steps, a last effort of a brave and commanding will. Perhaps there is
even a distance of creeping. But then the march is done! There is no
comeback, no rallying. The absolute limit has been reached. But
fortunately, lying still in the snow, the wanderer no longer cares. He
wonders why he did not yield to this tranquil comfort long since.

Bill began to realize that he was approaching his own limit. The weary
miles crept by, but with a tragic languor that was like a nightmare.
But time flew; only a little space of daylight remained.

Bill's leg muscles were aching and burning now, and he had to force
himself on by sheer power of his will. He would count twenty-five
painful steps, then halt. The wind had taken a more westerly course by
now, and the snow was no longer melting. The air was more crisp:
probably one night would serve to recrust the snow. But the fact became
ever more evident that the darkness would overtake him before he could
reach the cabin.

But now, curiously, he dreaded the thought of pausing and making a fire.
Partly he feared--with the age-old fea