His hands were icy
cold.
"Nothing," he murmured drowsily, "only--I'm starving, too, Dixon!" He
recovered himself with an effort, and smiled into Dixon's startled
face. "There is nothing to eat," he continued, as he saw the other
direct his gaze toward the pack. "I gave you the last of the flour.
There is nothing--but salt and tea." He rolled over upon the balsam
boughs with a restful sigh. "Let me sleep!"
Dixon went to the pack. One by one, in his search for food, he took
out the few articles that it contained. After that he drank more tea,
crawled back into the balsam shelter, and lay down beside Jan. It was
broad day when he awoke, and he called hoarsely to his companion when
he saw that the snow had ceased falling.
Jan did not stir. For a moment Dixon leaned over to listen to his
breathing, and then dragged himself slowly and painfully out into the
day. The fire was out. A leaden blackness still filled the sky; deep,
silent gloom hung in the wake of the storm.
Suddenly there came to Dixon's ears a sound. It was a sound that would
have been unheard in the gentle whispering of a wind, in the swaying
of the spruce-tops; but in this silence it fell upon the starving
man's hearing with a distinctness that drew his muscles rigid and set
his eyes staring about him in wild search.
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