I had been making a circuit to the
right. According to the compass, the Lord only knew where I was.

The inclination of persons in the woods to travel in a circle is
unexplained. I suppose it arises from the sympathy of the legs with the
brain. Most people reason in a circle: their minds go round and round,
always in the same track. For the last half hour I had been saying over
a sentence that started itself: "I wonder where that road is!" I had
said it over till it had lost all meaning. I kept going round on it; and
yet I could not believe that my body had been traveling in a circle.
Not being able to recognize any tracks, I have no evidence that I had so
traveled, except the general testimony of lost men.

The compass annoyed me. I've known experienced guides utterly discredit
it. It couldn't be that I was to turn about, and go the way I had come.
Nevertheless, I said to myself, "You'd better keep a cool head, my
boy, or you are in for a night of it. Better listen to science than
to spunk." And I resolved to heed the impartial needle. I was a little
weary of the rough tramping: but it was necessary to be moving; for,
with wet clothes and the night air, I was decidedly chilly. I turned
towards the north, and slipped and stumbled along. A more uninviting
forest to pass the night in I never saw. Every-thing was soaked. If
I became exhausted, it would be necessary to build a fire; and, as I
walked on, I couldn't find a dry bit of wood. Even if a little punk were
discovered in a rotten log I had no hatchet to cut fuel. I thought it
all over calmly. I had the usual three matches in my pocket. I knew
exactly what would happen if I tried to build a fire. The first match
would prove to be wet. The second match, when struck, would shine and
smell, and fizz a little, and then go out. There would be only one match
left. Death would ensue if it failed. I should get close to the log,
crawl under my hat, strike the match, see it catch, flicker, almost
go out (the reader painfully excited by this time), blaze up, nearly
expire, and finally fire the punk,--thank God! And I said to myself,
"The public don't want any more of this thing: it is played out. Either
have a box of matches, or let the first one catch fire."

In this gloomy mood I plunged along. The prospect was cheerless; for,
apart from the comfort that a fire would give, it is necessary, at
night, to keep off the wild beasts. I fancied I could hear the tread of
the stealt