Just beyond the hanging
pails a moose-bird hopped out upon the snow. It chirped hungrily, its
big, owl-like eyes scrutinizing Dixon. The man stared back, fearing to
move. Slowly he forced his right foot through the snow to the rear of
his left, and as cautiously brought his left behind his right, working
himself backward step by step until he reached the shelter. Just
inside was his rifle. He drew it out and sank upon his knees in the
snow to aim. At the report of the rifle, Jan stirred but did not open
his eyes; he made no movement when Dixon called out in shrill joy that
he had killed meat. He heard, he strove to arouse himself, but
something more powerful than his own will seemed pulling him down into
oblivion. It seemed an eternity before he was conscious of a voice
again. He felt himself lifted, and opened his eyes with his head
resting against the Englishman's shoulder.
"Drink this, Thoreau," he heard.
He drank, and knew that it was not tea that ran down his throat.
"Whisky-jack soup," he heard again. "How is it?"
He became wide-awake. Dixon was offering him a dozen small bits of
meat on a tin plate, and he ate without questioning. Suddenly, when
there were only two or three of the smallest scraps left, he stopped.
"Mon Dieu, it was whisky-jack!" he cried.
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