ut as the boy fell in the snow, but each time it was
followed by a wriggling and tugging, and the youngster scrambled gamely
to his feet and floundered on in the wake of his big friend.

But this time Carmody waited in vain for the movement of the line that
would tell him that the boy was regaining his feet--the line remained
taut, and Bill turned and groped in the snow. He lifted the boy to his
feet, but the small body sagged limply against his own, and the head
rolled weakly.

He shook him roughly and, with his lips close to the boy's ear, shouted
words of encouragement. But his only answer was a dull look from the
half-closed eyes, and a sleepily muttered jumble of words, in which he
made out: "Can't make it--all in--go on--she does love you."

Again and again he tried to rouse him, but all to no purpose; the boy
had battled bravely to the end of his endurance, and now only wanted to
be let alone. Bill sat beside him in the snow and, sheltering him as
best he could from the sting of the wind-driven particles, produced a
piece of the meat from his pocket.

The boy gnawed it feebly, and the food revived him somewhat, so that
for a few rods he staggered on, but the line again tightened, and this
time the man knew that it was useless to attempt to arouse his little
companion.

Hurriedly removing his mackinaw, he wrapped it around the body of the
boy and, by means of a "squaw hitch" sling, swung him to his back. The
boy's dangling rackets hindered his movement, and he slashed the thongs
and left them in the snow.

Then, straining the last atom of his vitality, he plunged ahead.

The early darkness of the North country settled about the staggering
man. His progress was painfully slow and, without sense of direction,
he wallowed forward, stumbling, falling, struggling to his feet only to
fall again a few rods farther on.

The weight of the boy seemed to crush him into the snow, and each time
it became harder and harder to regain his feet against the merciless
rush of the blizzard.

He lost all hope of making camp. He did not know whether it was near or
far, he only knew that he was upon the river, and that he must push on
and on.

He realized dully that he might easily have passed the rollways hours
ago. He even considered doubling back; but what was the use? If he
passed them once, he would pass them again.

Every drop of his fighting blood was up. He would push on to the end.
He would die, of course; but he