ammunition for his empty gun, fish-hooks and lines, a
small net--all the utilities for the killing and snaring of food. Also,
he would find flour,--not much,--a piece of bacon, and some beans.

Bill would be waiting for him there, and they would paddle away south
down the Dease to the Great Bear Lake. And south across the lake they
would go, ever south, till they gained the Mackenzie. And south, still
south, they would go, while the winter raced vainly after them, and the
ice formed in the eddies, and the days grew chill and crisp, south to
some warm Hudson Bay Company post, where timber grew tall and generous
and there was grub without end.

These were the thoughts of the man as he strove onward. But hard as he
strove with his body, he strove equally hard with his mind, trying to
think that Bill had not deserted him, that Bill would surely wait for him
at the cache. He was compelled to think this thought, or else there
would not be any use to strive, and he would have lain down and died. And
as the dim ball of the sun sank slowly into the northwest he covered
every inch--and many times--of his and Bill's flight south before the
downcoming winter. And he conned the grub of the cache and the grub of
the Hudson Bay Company post over and over again. He had not eaten for
two days; for a far longer time he had not had all he wanted to eat.
Often he stooped and picked pale muskeg berries, put them into his mouth,
and chewed and swallowed them. A muskeg berry is a bit of seed enclosed
in a bit of water. In the mouth the water melts away and the seed chews
sharp and bitter. The man knew there was no nourishment in the berries,
but he chewed them patiently with a hope greater than knowledge and
defying experience.

At nine o'clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge, and from sheer
weariness and weakness staggered and fell. He lay for some time, without
movement, on his side. Then he slipped out of the pack-straps and
clumsily dragged himself into a sitting posture. It was not yet dark,
and in the lingering twilight he groped about among the rocks for shreds
of dry moss. When he had gathered a heap he built a fire,--a
smouldering, smudgy fire,--and put a tin pot of water on to boil.

He unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did was to count his
matches. There were sixty-seven. He counted them three times to make
sure. He divided them into several portions, wrapping them in oil paper,
disposing of one bun