A Claim on Klondyke: A Romance of the Arctic El Dorado

by Edward Roper

CHAPTER V.

It was about midnight before Meade spoke again. He had been lying motionless, though occasionally a low groan escaped him. I thought he had been sleeping, from the effect of the whisky I had given him; however it was not so.

Suddenly, with a cry of anguish, with eyes wide open, pupils dilated, he gazed at me fixedly. "Bertie," he murmured, "the pain has been bearable, but now it is increasing; if I move in the least the agony is dreadful. Inflammation is beginning I suppose, and if something is not done speedily I must die!"

What could I answer? I expect I looked as dismayed as I felt, for he went on, "But don't grieve, my boy, don't you give up; it's a miserable affair, I know, for you as well as for me, but I am not hopeless; no! if you could follow the instructions I can give you I may pull through—I've been thinking it all out."

I was alert instantly. "Everything you tell me I will do," said I; "your every wish I will carry out. I'm an awful muff at anything like this, you know, yet I'll do my best, and God helping us, we may, as you say, pull through."

At which he told me that some years before he left England he had attended what was called an ambulance class, where instructions were given about "first aid to the injured," and he had been striving to remember all he had learned about broken bones. He told me I must get a strip of wood, smooth and strong, about four feet long, and a number of shorter and thinner pieces for splints.

These I quickly procured. The next things were bandages. We had very little stuff that would answer for them, but our tent, which was of thin duck, would do; so I ripped some of that into strips.

To put the fracture into place was a most difficult task. I hardly dared to handle him, for every touch gave him exquisite pain; yet I had to twist and pull and push until I believed the bones were in the right position. He directed me as best he could, but only at intervals, on account of the torture my unskilled hands were giving him. When, as I hoped, all was as it should be, I placed the splints, each wrapped in the softest stuff I had, close together round the injury; then I wound long bandages over all, tightly and smoothly.

Lastly, outside, from his armpit to his foot, I placed the long strip of wood and bound it to him, round his chest, his middle, and his ankle, fastening it securely and firmly with plenty of bands above and below the fracture.

Meade thanked me when I had finished. He said, with a sad smile, that he believed I had done it as well as if I had been through the course of instructions which he had; then he closed his eyes, exhausted.

He had borne all this with the greatest fortitude, but now a kind of stupor appeared to creep over him. I hoped that it would end in healthy sleep; therefore I quietly made up the fire, lowered the light, and slipped out into the night.

It was absolutely still in the open air, and not so very cold. Not a breath of wind stirred the surrounding foliage; only the ripple of the creek was audible as it flowed tinkling over the stones a few yards from me, and the swish of the water swirling through the sluice.

Patch had come out with me. He was so quiet, so subdued, so sorrowful; it was just wonderful the almost human sagacity of that dog. I had said to him gently as we came out, "We must be very quiet, Patch; you must not bark; your poor master is very ill; we must let him sleep," and the way that dear old fellow looked at me was as if he quite understood what I had said. I believe he did, too, by his actions.

From the hot stuffy cavern, little more than a burrow, where I had been attending to my poor friend, to the clear air outside, the change was great and most refreshing. I stood beside the creek for some time breathing in the sweet pine-scented air, and thinking very deeply, very seriously.

The sky was cloudless, the stars were gleaming near the southern horizon in great brilliancy, but over the rest of the heavens they were hardly discernible—they were overpowered by the blaze of the Northern Lights. This was no unusual occurrence; rarely when the sky was clear were they absent at night, though on this particular time they were remarkably bright.

I was naturally terribly depressed, wretchedly anxious, all but despairing; yet when I observed this grand display of Almighty power my thoughts rose from these mundane troubles, and I felt that He who marshalled these mysterious forces, whose hand was so plainly visible there, would, if it pleased Him, help us out of this terrible strait, and enable us to bear whatever He chose to send us with patience and trustfulness. I am not ashamed to add that I lifted up my heart in prayer to Him, beseeching Him to be with us.

Certainly I received great relief from this. I took my seat upon an upturned sluice-box, I drew my blanket-coat close round me, for it was freezing, and with dear old Patch beside me, I remained there ruminating for an hour or more.

I could not hide from myself that the position was most serious. I hoped, though I feared, that what I had done for Meade would prove to be successful. I had heard of people fracturing their limbs, and in a few weeks being out and about again as well as ever. But they had skilled attention, whilst we knew nothing about the treatment. I believed that the principal thing was to keep my patient's general health good. I wondered what food I should give him. I ran over the stores we still possessed, and was thankful to remember how much we had, and what a variety. Surely amongst it all I could concoct wholesome and proper things for him.

Then my mind travelled to our work there. I realised that it was all ended for the present, and I fell to wondering how we should ultimately get all our gold away and our gear, for of course there would be no rafting. The creek, the whole country, would be frozen solid and covered deep in snow, long before my poor friend could travel.

It recurred to me next that in the winter, with snow, one could haul heavy loads upon a sleigh, and I believed that we two and Patch could move everything. I actually caught myself planning how I should build one. Indeed it crossed my mind that even if Meade was not strong enough to help drag, that Patch and I could pull him, with our gold too, as far as Dawson City. There, I thought, there might be a doctor, and surely more comfort than in our dismal hole. Women were at Dawson: one whom I had met at that store, it seemed to me, would prove a good friend to us in our need.

As regards our gold, I felt most grateful that we had secured so much, for there would be no lack of means to carry out our needs.

I sat outside thus, thinking of these and many other subjects, until I noticed that the aurora had faded clean away, that the sky in the north-east was crimson, and that ere many minutes another day would have dawned. Then I went inside. Meade was sleeping naturally, breathing gently and regularly, so I lay down myself and slept too.

It was broad day when I awoke. The brilliant sun was scintillating on the ripples of the creek before our doorway. Meade was calling me. "Bertie, dear boy," said he, "I grieve to have awakened you, but oh! I am so thirsty; give me some cold water."

Well, now, I was afraid to do so. I said I must make some hot, open a tin of Swiss milk, and give him that, but he said "No;" that he remembered well when one of his sisters had been ill, she had suffered much because cold water was refused when she craved for it. When the doctor came he gave it her, telling them to remember that at all times it could be given with safety.

On the strength of this I gave Meade what he longed for, and it did him good. I made him oatmeal porridge; we had a bottle or two of bovril—I gave him some; and really that day he ate so well and was so wonderfully cheerful that I began to believe this would not be such a terribly serious business after all.

The following day, though, his other leg was exceedingly painful: it was sadly cut and bruised. With warm water I washed it. He wished me to apply cold water bandages, but I had, in Ontario, seen so much benefit from using pine gum—which is Venice turpentine, I suppose—for such hurts, that I persuaded him to let me put some on. The gum was oozing from every tree and stump about, wherever we had made a cut with an axe. In a few moments I collected plenty. It was surprising how quickly this stuff gave him relief, and how healing it was.

Meade was in better spirits that evening again. I read to him, we smoked and chatted—he passed a most satisfactory night. Next day he complained much. He said that even the pressure of the blankets on his legs was dreadfully painful.

I easily remedied that: I made a frame of willow twigs to lie over him, to bear off the clothes, which answered well.

"What a kind chap you are, Bertie," said he, after I had done all I could think of for his comfort.

"Kind chap!" I answered smiling. "Suppose it had been my leg that had been broken, what would you have done?—let me lie? And if you had got me in here, you would have neglected me, I suppose, and let things go? Not you; you would have done all you could for me, my friend. I know that right well, and so I'm doing the same for you, and intend to—so say no more."

As I have said, we were the best of friends, but the intimate association this accident occasioned brought us still closer together. I rarely left his side, only for fuel and other necessaries. As for going on with gold-getting, somehow I could not even think of it. I endeavoured to keep a bright face in my friend's presence, but when alone, or at night when he was sleeping, I had many terrible fears and uncertainties to ponder about and to depress me.

If he did not soon mend! if he got worse! if he could not be moved!—these thoughts were always in my mind.

The winter would be upon us directly—it was then the end of September—and I knew that we should be frozen in and snowed up soon, and remain so till June of this year 1897. Much of the time would be passed in darkness; in mid-winter there would be but a gleam of day at noon. These were dismal, unnerving forebodings. I tried to lift my heart to whence alone I could expect real help. I sought to repress all other thoughts, to just do the best I knew for my friend, and to trust our Heavenly Father for the rest.

To an extent I succeeded, and so many days went by in comparative peace.

We had a terrible gale during this time, I remember: heavy rain and hail accompanied it. The creek rose, it washed away a couple of our sluice-boxes, and seemed as if it would swamp our drive. This roused me to active measures: I piled up rocks and logs in such a way that I secured it against that misfortune.

Meade and I frequently congratulated ourselves about our safety in that dug-out: we knew that nothing short of an earthquake could upset our dwelling. No tents could stand against that heavy wind and downpour.

It was dark and dismal enough, surely, but often when we had a bright fire roaring in its corner, the lamp alight, the door tightly closed, and we were lying reading, with Patch curled up between us, we said to each other how thankful we ought to be, and were, I hope, for such comfort in that wild land.

It was during this enforced companionship that my friend opened his mind very freely to me. I don't know if he had any presentiment then of what the end would be—any premonition of still greater trouble ahead. It is impossible to be certain of this, but I have since thought that he had.

He had a very lovable disposition, even when he was well, and had had to fight with me against wilderness troubles which upset and spoil the temper of most men. When things went wrong ashore or afloat, when our Indians were stupid, when the fates seemed to be dead against us and all appeared to be going wrong, I never remember him becoming really angry, using bad language, or showing anything but the most perfect amiability.

Many will think it is impossible to go through the rough countries of this world, especially such a wilderness as we had traversed, and were then in, or to subdue others' wills to ours, without showing a masterful, a domineering spirit. I thought so, and began, when he and I started on this expedition, to assert myself, believing that only thus would we be able to hold our own, or make headway.

Meade, on the contrary, from the first was amiable, friendly, and polite with all—red men and white. I thought this, for a while, unmanly, and feared I should thereby have my hands full of trouble, but I soon found I was much mistaken.

I noticed on board the steamer going up to Juneau, and at Skagway, that the people looked astonished, for a little, at the way in which my friend spoke, his gentleness and consideration to all—never shouting his desires or orders, but asking politely for what he required. Yes, they looked surprised at his uncommon style, for a bit, but were invariably impressed by it; and thinking that he must be a prince, or at least a duke (that was the usual idea), they treated him, as far as they knew, with the same consideration with which he treated them.

And I, as his mate, his friend, came in for the benefit of it.

So, mild and amiable as Meade had been all along, during this sad time he was, if possible, more so. He suffered intensely, I know it now, though at that time I scarcely understood it. Often he could hardly speak for pain and weakness, yet he never neglected to thank me for the slightest thing I did for him, and he never expressed impatience at his sad condition.

Well, that is hardly true; he did frequently bemoan his fate in having brought me to such a pass—that was a great trouble to him.

In vain I begged him not to let that grieve him. I assured him again and again that I had no one dependent on me in England, or anywhere; that my people were well off; that a month or two, or even a year or two, was of no great moment; that even if we had to winter there we should resume work in the spring, and go home with still larger piles in the summer.

He would listen to these remarks, patiently and calmly, but with a smile on his face apparently of unbelief.

Then he would talk gently to me about himself. How he had looked forward with such intense pleasure to going home that fall with plenty, to relieve his loved mother and sisters from all future money worries. He told me a great deal about them, where they lived, and how.

He had been in Australia for two years, and had done some gold-digging there. He had been four years in Canada; like me, he had brought a little money with him, had taken up land in Assiniboia, had struggled there for a couple of years, living wretchedly and prospering not at all, then he had sold all he had, cattle and gear, and had come West.

He took service in the Rockies with the Canadian Pacific Railway at section work, which is, I believe, what is called "plate-laying" in Britain. From there he had gradually drifted to the coast, to Vancouver City, where he had obtained employment on a wharf. There his education helped him, he became a foreman, next he got the post of purser on one of the steamers trading between Puget Sound and the North.

The spring before I met him he was up at St. Michael's, in Behring Sea, where he fell in with a man who told him about the gold which was being got away up the Yukon. He had acted on this man's advice, with the result he had already related to me.

He sent his mother a large portion of what he found the year before, told her of his projected expedition with me, and promised that he would "come out" in September, he believed with what would be regarded as a fortune, even in England.

"And now," said he, with a sad sigh, "here I am, laid by the heels—and you too, my friend, on my account—not able even to let them know that I'm alive!"

I did my very best to comfort him. I begged him to have patience, that I hoped before many weeks—when the snow came—that we should get out, "and surely," I added, "from Dawson there is some way of communicating with civilisation."

You understand we really knew very little about the country. We had heard many yarns about the awful winter, and generally had the idea that it would be extremely dismal and melancholy. But we had also been told that with plenty of grub and light and fuel—which we had—people could exist with some little comfort. So we struck the middle opinion, and found it would be bad but bearable.

Well, it was bearable, certainly, or I should not be here; and yet I can aver that the horror of it has not been more than half told yet.

Thank God, we had plenty of food and firing, and as I said to my poor chum, "I'll bet there are many miserable beggars scattered about this Yukon country and Alaska who are worse off than we are by a long shot."

He smiled at my enthusiasm, and added, "But I hope there are no broken legs amongst them."

At which I felt rather subdued. But I had talked, and continued to do so thus, to cheer him if I could, and to make him think that I was quite happy and contented.

Really, at heart, I was neither. He did not seem to me to be improving. He told me of the pain he suffered in his leg. I suggested that it was caused by the bone growing together. I said I had heard that was usually the most painful time, and he hoped I was right. He was very pale and thin. I tried to believe that was only the effect of his lying so long and being in the dim light. His appetite troubled me: he ate very little, and did not fancy anything we had.

One time he talked to me about the girl he loved at home. He showed me her portrait. Her name is Fanny Hume. I thought she must be very pretty from her photo. He declared she was that—lovely. They had been engaged for four years. She was to have come out to him, if he had done well in the prairie country. They had experienced great disappointment at his failure there, but his good fortune up here the year before had altered matters. If he had got out this fall they were to have been married by Christmas.

He told me of the plans he had laid for his mother's comfort, and of the dreams he had about the home he would make for his bride with the good fortune that had come to him. "And now," said he in grievous tones, "all this is ended, all my plans frustrated. God knows how hard it is; it looks almost cruel, doesn't it?"

What could I say? I begged him not to lose hope. I besought him to remember that God did know—that for some mysterious reason He had allowed this terrible disaster to take place, that we must just put our trust in Him. We were assured, and, I hoped, believed, that He does all things well, and that we must just leave it so.

Oh! how I longed to have more power of comforting him. How impotent I felt, and was. I could only keep saying, "Look up, Meade! look up! from there alone can come our help."

One day said he, "I'd give anything for a bit of fresh mutton. Just fancy a mutton chop at Pimm's, in the Strand, and a glass of their stout, eh!"

This pleased me. If he had such a longing for food I thought it a good sign, and said so.

But, alas! there was no mutton chop to be got there. There are mountain sheep—-bighorns, moufflons—up in the hills. How could I leave him to stalk one? But I thought I might shoot him a grouse for a change. Salmon he was heartily sick of; the tinned things were very good for men in health, but not for an invalid. I had broiled him a bit of bear meat lately, which he enjoyed. I did so again and again, till he was tired of that.

So I took down my gun one day, said I would not be long away. I thought I would go up and kill a bird.

I went up the creek to a clump of thick spruce I knew of, feeling sure I should find some there, but instead out leapt a half-grown deer!

I brought him down, luckily. I could just manage to pack him home. I was back again within an hour. Meade smiled a welcome. "I heard you shoot," said he, "the rifle barrel. What did you get?"

I would not tell him. I said he must wait and see. The little buck was fat. I cut out a chop—it looked just like a mutton chop—I broiled it at a fire I lit outside, and brought it to him. He was delighted, he was charmed, and with tears in his eyes he thanked me again and again. And there were tears in my eyes too!

For several days he enjoyed what he called mutton. I had hung it outside to freeze, where everything was frozen. I varied his food—bear meat, deer meat, salmon; salmon, bear meat, deer meat—and in between I gave him some of the canned things that he fancied.

For weeks matters went on like this. It was five since the accident, when I noticed a decided change in him, and it was not for the better!

It was by that time winter. All green things but the pines and spruces were frozen and dead. Snow covered all the high lands, and even the flats were drifted with it. The still water everywhere was frozen; only our creek still ran, and there were still fish in it. I don't know what possessed me—thank God, something did—but I took the notion to secure some of these salmon.

It was easily done. I rolled a few logs and brush into a narrow place, then went up stream and drove the fish down, and many became entangled there. I dragged out half-a-dozen and slung them in the trees about our den.

Another day I saw a bear foraging about near. I gave Meade warning that I was about to shoot, and I killed it easily. I put a ball through him, under his arm, and he died without a struggle. It was very fat and lazy—a cinnamon.

I had plenty to do to skin it and cut it up. The fat I hung up in the trees. We had no great amount of oil left for our little lamp, and very few candles, and I thought, "If we must winter here we must make shift with this in some way until next June."

For I began to think that my idea of getting out on a sleigh would never work. Yet I was busy constructing one. But I thought I saw that if my friend was to get away it would only be when the water was open again, eight or nine months later!

Our almost finished raft was now frozen fast to the bank. I almost hated the sight of it. I wondered if, after all, that would be the means by which we should get away.

I do not remember that I regarded the prospect of wintering there as such a terrible calamity. We really had plenty about us, and we were such excellent companions that I only felt if he got well, all would be well.

I must admit that it crossed my mind more than once—"If he should die!"

I put this dreadful thought away, I kept it down generally, but sometimes it struck me suddenly, and I felt as if a stream of ice ran down my spine, as though my heart was frozen. The contemplation of such a dire disaster was awful.

Time went on; I could see no improvement. If his leg was joining properly I could not tell, nor could he. He himself was usually very quiet, yet there was a look creeping over him to which I could not shut my eyes; he was thinner, greyer, and shrivelled.

One night he put down his pipe as if with loathing. "I'll smoke no more," said he; "I believe it is not good for me."

I took no notice—thought it better not.

Later he threw down his book, declaring he could not read—that his leg was so painful.

I examined it. So far as I could tell all seemed right—so far as appearance went. His foot was cold and somewhat swollen, but there was warmth enough elsewhere.

Next day he had much more pain. He was all for cold water bandages. To please him I bathed his leg and wrapped it in wet cloths—this eased him.

That night he complained that the half-wet bandages were irritating him. What was I to do?

Finding that cold water applications soothed him, I kept the cloths wet always. Neither of us had the least idea whether we were doing right.

I discovered that he slept very little. I myself passed many a sleepless night, but my health was wonderfully good. I was quite robust in spite of my terrible anxieties.

The weather was now extremely cold—as cold as I had ever felt it in the east of Canada. Our place was warm though—so long as we kept the door closed and excluded draughts we were cosy.

The nights were extremely long, and the days, though usually sunny, were very cold. We had several hard gales: the fine, dry snow was forced through every crevice. I used to bring in abundance of food and fuel at such times, cram every crevice round our doorway full of moss, make Patch come inside, and none of us left the shelter whilst the blizzard lasted.

I had cut a hole in the door and covered it with a piece of the thin intestine of a bear. We had no glass. I used to read to my companion sometimes from a Bible, at others from Shakespeare, and we had a copy of that penny book W. T. Stead has published, 'Hymns that have Helped.' It had got out to Victoria, and I had picked it up at a book-store and valued it, for several of those hymns had powerful associations for me.

My friend was fond of some of them too, and I often saw him read a verse or two with tears in his eyes.

He was generally silent. This made me very sad. Do as I would, try as I did, I could not help being very much cast down, very full of forebodings of evil.

One night—it was bitterly cold outside, and the wind was howling through the trees, we were warm and comfortable enough as far as that went—I was looking sorrowfully at the invalid, who I thought was dozing, when he slowly opened his eyes—which seemed to me to have grown very large and prominent—and gazing at me, oh! so mournfully, said, "Bertie, my friend, I suppose you realise that I am not going to get well?"

For a few moments I could not reply, my heart was in my throat, I felt as if it were choking me; at length I managed to ejaculate, "Oh! Meade, my dear friend, have patience—don't break down like this—or I shall——"

His eyes were suffused with tears. "Dear friend, indeed," he began, slowly and in broken accents, "I grieve—God knows how very much I grieve—to tell you this, but I know I am not improving, and I believe I shall never leave this hut alive. I have been thinking about you, wondering what you will do if I am taken. I am awfully sorry that I brought you here."

"Say not one word on that head," I interrupted him; "I do not regret it. Look how well we have done. What has happened is terrible, I know, but oh! pray don't give up, don't get to thinking that you'll not recover. Please God you'll be all right soon, then fancy with what joy we'll be off home in the spring."

Thus I tried to cheer him—thus I tried to look at things.

"Well, well," he replied, with a wan smile, "I'll try to be more hopeful, I'll try to trust; but listen, what will you do if I am taken? Can you make your way out alone, think you?"

I refused to answer,—I merely said that I would not even think about it, much less talk of it, and begged him not to. I asked him if his leg was so painful, and what reason he had to say he was no better, in reply to which he went into a number of particulars which I need not repeat.

Later he talked again about his mother and sisters, and, laying his hand on mine, he begged me to bear with him, not to be angry with him, whilst he explained what he wished to be done, "supposing," and he gazed at me in a most affecting way as he said it,—"supposing I don't get home myself."

I said very little,—I let him talk. I nodded occasionally to let him see I heard what he was saying, understood, and would do as he wished.

He told me what proportion he desired his mother and his sisters to have—"if I ever got out safely with the gold"—and that the remainder was to be given to Fanny Hume, the lady to whom he was engaged.

He bade me put all these things down in my notebook, saying also that he should write letters to them all, "in case of accidents." He dwelt for some time on these most melancholy topics, and I expect would have gone on still longer had I not diverted his thoughts into another channel.

I got on to the subject of the value of the gold we had, and asked his opinion of the way we were to proceed to secure our claim, so that we might return next season and work it.

He told me again all he knew on the subject, declared that we should have to hire men at Dawson, or at Forty Mile, or even at Circle City, to work for us; and indeed for an hour or two he talked on very much in his old way, full of information and cleverness, and quite excited about the fortune we had made.

He fell asleep at last with a cheerful look on his face, after having by my persuasion smoked a pipe with me.

I rolled myself in my blankets then, and with some hopefulness and a quieter spirit I too went to sleep.

Several times I awoke and put on firing. Meade was always sleeping peacefully, but towards morning, just as grey light was filtering through our window, I was aroused by his groans. He told me that he was suffering acutely, that the pain in his leg was maddening, that he was sure all had gone wrong there. He begged me to remove the bandages, declaring that he knew they were no longer needed. "Either the bones have joined now, or they never will," said he. "If they have not, then I shall never get better, and if I go on any longer in this agony I shall die surely."

Perplexed, bewildered, terribly afraid of doing wrong, yet quite unable to withstand his entreaties, I consented in the end to do as he desired.

He had already thrown the blankets from him, and was tossing his unhurt leg and arms about most dangerously. His face was flushed, he was continually crying out for water, and I, even with my small experience, knew that he was in a high fever, of the seriousness of which I was conscious.

I loosed the fastenings of the long strip of wood. This did not appease him. He exclaimed that he was on fire, that the pain was excruciating. He became angry with me because I hesitated to take off the splints. He talked wildly, incoherently, madly, and then began tearing at the bandages himself, so I undid the splints and took them off, exposing his bare leg, and then I no longer wondered that he suffered as he did.

He fainted, I believe, and when the pressure was taken off he lay back pale and silent. I brought whisky, and by degrees got him to swallow some. I opened the door, brought in some snow, which covered everything outside now. I put some on his forehead. He was a long time, or so it seemed to me, before he came to.

I cannot describe the appearance of his leg; it horrified me. From that moment I gave up all hope of his recovery. It was indeed some time before he spoke, and then he was delirious, light-headed. He talked and raved the whole night through. Sometimes he begged me to remove the bandages—which were off; at others he talked of his mother, of Fanny Hume, often of Jim and Fan, and of me and of our work. I never went through such a day and night—I never want to again. Towards morning he fell asleep, exhausted. I wondered if I had done wisely in removing these bandages. I thought not. He slept now so profoundly that I endeavoured to replace some of them without awaking him, and I did succeed in getting the long strip down his side and securing it just as he awoke. He was in his right mind then, and I believe had no knowledge of the condition he had been in.

He endeavoured to move his leg—he could not. I suppose he recognised the importance of this discovery, for he then threw himself back, extended his arms, and sighed profoundly as he muttered, "It is so, then—the case is hopeless! hopeless!"

He looked at me once, a fixed solemn look, then closed his eyes and lay there motionless and silent.

I whispered, "Oh! try, dear friend, not to move that leg, the only hope is to keep it absolutely still." Then he opened his eyes, gazed at me for a moment, and through his clenched teeth he whispered, "Hopeless, hopeless."

The rest of that day he was profoundly quiet. I don't think he slept, for whenever I spoke to him he replied at once in a monosyllable. He would not eat, but drank all I gave him.

I myself was so low and exhausted with anxiety and watching that I have but little recollection of what followed. Sometimes he slept, sometimes his mind wandered, generally he was in a state of stupor. One morning I left him sleeping whilst I went out for food and fuel. When I returned, to my horror he was sitting upright.

I called out in amazement. He smiled sadly as he said, "Ah! it does not matter much, Bertie. I've not moved my bad leg though, just dragged it along—it's all right, as right as it'll ever be: but I must write to-day; after that we'll just hope for the best, that's all we can do."

"Ay," I answered, "that's all; yes, but we can pray, we can do that, and that's our only hope."

He begged me to give him paper and pencil, and for an hour or more he wrote. He stopped often to sip the drink I set beside him, then he lay back exhausted, and I think he slept.

By-and-by he aroused and wrote more letters. He went on thus until it was quite dark, when he told me he had finished, adding that he believed he now could sleep well, for a great weight was off his mind.

Before he closed his eyes I begged him to tell me if there was anything I could do for him, any wish that I could gratify. Would he have bovril? whisky? tea? He thanked me; he said he had no desire for anything, that he would sleep; but suddenly opening his eyes, looking at me excitedly, he said, "Bertie, you will not laugh at me, you will not think I'm off my head, will you, but if you'd just read me that beautiful hymn of Cowper's—"There is a fountain," you know? I remember it was a great favourite of Prince Albert's, and I like it too. Read it for me, Bertie, and then I think I'll sleep well."

I read it—I broke down several times—but as I finished the last line I saw he was sleeping calmly.

I was fagged out myself—I had hardly eaten a scrap that day—I don't think I had slept an hour for days: so when I saw he was sleeping I too lay back and was soon unconscious, and had forgotten all our troubles.

Before closing my eyes though, I took a good look at my friend. I could not help remarking how great a change there was in him. His face was so drawn, so withered; there was no trace of colour on it, even his lips were white.

I had never seen a human being die. I had never seen a dead person up to that time, and yet there was that appearance to my companion; something had come over him which profoundly affected me, and I kept saying to myself, "He will die, he will die." I was whispering this when I fell asleep, and forgot all my grief and misery.

How long I slept I do not know. It was still dark when I awoke. I had extinguished the light before I went to sleep. It was very cold, the fire was nearly out. This being an all-important affair I jumped up, stirred the embers together and blew them into a flame. Then I piled on more wood, and made quite a noise in doing it.

I feared I had awakened Meade and perhaps alarmed him. I called gently to him. There was no reply. I concluded that he still slept, therefore I crouched by the now blazing fire, warming myself.

Just then Patch came quietly up to me and laid his head on my arm. I looked down and patted him.

Really and truly there was a most pitiful look in the poor dog's eyes. He saw that I noticed this, and to my horror and dismay he suddenly lifted up his head and gave one most vehemently long-drawn, heartrending howl!

Speaking sharply to the poor beast, I clasped his muzzle, and he stopped. Then he sat staring at the blazing logs with a most sorrowful expression.

I don't know why, I can't tell what made me begin to tremble. I reached for a lighted sliver—I could hardly hold my hand still enough to light the lamp, I shook so—and when I had ignited it and turned it on to the face of my friend, I saw that he had not moved since he fell asleep. There he lay, stretched out on his back, sleeping still. Yes, surely, he was sleeping!

Softly I laid my hand on his forehead—it was cold as ice. I sought for one of his hands—it was cold and as stiff as if it were frozen. I put my hand upon his heart—there was no motion there.

Then like a flash it came to me that my dear friend was dead—ay, Meade was dead!