appiness, and now he was lost. From such a man as Carr
there was no hope for mercy, or of escape. Flat on his back, he closed
his eyes, and tried to think--to scheme something that might happen in
his favor, to foresee an opportunity that might give him one last
chance. And then, suddenly, he heard a sound. It traveled over the
blanket that formed a pillow for his head. A cool, soft little nose
touched his ear, and then tiny feet ran swiftly over his shoulder, and
halted on his breast. He opened his eyes, and stared.

"You little cuss!" he breathed. A hundred times he had spoken those
words, and each time they were of increasing wonder and adoration. "You
little cuss!" he whispered again, and he chuckled aloud.

The mouse was humped on his breast in that curious little ball that it
made of itself, and was eyeing him, Jim thought, in a questioning sort
of way, "What's the matter with you?" it seemed to ask. "Where are your
hands?"

And Jim answered:

"They've got me, old man. Now what the dickens are we going to do?"

The mouse began investigating. It examined his shoulder, the end of his
chin, and ran along his arm, as far as it could go.

"Now what do you think of that!" Falkner exclaimed softly. "The little
cuss is wondering where my hands are!" Gently he rolled over on his
side.

"There they are," he said, "hitched tighter 'n bark to a tree!"

He wiggled his fingers, and in a moment he felt the mouse. The little
creature ran across the opened palm of his hand to his wrist, and then
every muscle in Falkner's body grew tense, and one of the strangest
cries that ever fell from human lips came from his. The mouse had found
once more the dried hide-flesh of which the snowshoe webs were made. It
had found babiche. And it had begun TO GNAW!

In the minutes that followed Falkner scarcely breathed. He could feel
the mouse when it worked. Above the stifled beating of his heart he
could hear its tiny jaws. In those moments he knew that his last hope
of life hung in the balance. Five, ten minutes passed, and not until
then did he strain at the thongs that bound his wrists. Was that the
bed that had snapped? Or was it the breaking of one of the babiche
cords? He strained harder. The thongs were loosening; his wrists were
freer; with a cry that sent the mouse scurrying to the floor he doubled
himself half erect, and fought like a madman. Five minutes later and he
was free.

He staggered to his feet, and looked at his w