e'll carry you if you can't walk."

He shook his head pitifully, but once more he crawled after us. We
ourselves were making no great speed. Lack of food was beginning to tell
on us. Our stomachs were painfully empty and dead.

"How d'ye feel?" asked the Prodigal. His face had an arrestively hollow
look, but that frozen smile was set on it.

"All right," I said, "only terribly weak. My head aches at times, but
I've got no pain."

"Neither have I. This starving racket's a cinch. It's dead easy. What
rot they talk about the gnawing pains of hunger, an' ravenous men
chewing up their boot-tops. It's easy. There's no pain. I don't even
feel hungry any more."

None of us did. It was as if our stomachs, in despair at not receiving
any food, had sunk into apathy. Yet there was no doubt we were terribly
weak. We only made a few miles a day now, and even that was an effort.
The distance seemed to be elastic, to stretch out under our feet. Every
few yards we had to help Jim over a bad place. His body was emaciated
and he was getting very feeble. A hollow fire burned in his eyes. The
Halfbreed persisted that beyond those despotic mountains lay the Yukon
Valley, and at night he would rouse us up:

"Say, boys, I hear the 'toot' of a steamer. Just a few more days and
we'll get there."

Running through the valley, we found a little river. It was muddy in
colour and appeared to contain no fish. We ranged along it eagerly,
hoping to find a few minnows, but without success. It seemed to me, as I
foraged here and there for food, it was not hunger that impelled me so
much as the instinct of self-preservation. I knew that if I did not get
something into my stomach I would surely die.

Down the river we trailed forlornly. For a week we had eaten nothing.
Jim had held on bravely, but now he gave up.

"For God's sake, leave me, boys! Don't make me feel guilty of your
death. Haven't I got enough on my soul already? For God's pity, lads,
save yourselves! Leave me here to die."

He pleaded brokenly. His legs seemed to have become paralysed. Every
time we stopped he would pitch forward on his face, or while walking he
would fall asleep and drop. The Prodigal and I supported him, but it was
truly hard to support ourselves, and sometimes we collapsed, coming down
all three together in a confused and helpless heap. The Prodigal still
wore that set grin. His face was nigh fleshless, and, through the
straggling beard, it sometimes minded me