All night long Tom kept on going. He fancied he was on some sort of trail or road, but he could not be sure. Certainly the trees seemed cut down in a line, though it was a twisting and turning one.
Then the moon went down, leaving the scene pretty dark, but the white snow made objects plain. Tom kept on until at last he was fairly staggering from side to side. He was very weak.
“I—I’ve got to give up,” he panted. “I—I’ve got to—to rest.”
He looked about and saw sort of a nook under some bushes. On top was a matting of snow, like a roof. Tom crawled into this like some hunted animal, and sank down wearily. He pulled his mackinaw about him, thankful that he had it with him. He must have frozen without its protection.
Again Tom was unaware of the passage of time. He must have dozed or fainted, perhaps, but when he opened his eyes the sun was shining. The day was a brilliant one, and warm, for that time of year. Tom took heart. He crawled out, and once more started on his wearying tramp. He was very weak and exhausted, and there was a “gone” feeling to his stomach.
“Or the place where it used to be,” Tom said, with grim humor. “I don’t believe I have a stomach left.”
But he forced himself onward. It seemed that he had been staggering over the snow for a week. Time had lost its meaning for him.
“Oh, if I only had something to eat! If I only could find the camp!” murmured poor Tom.
He reached a stump, and sat down on it to rest. He closed his eyes but suddenly opened them again.
Was that fancy, or had he heard a shot? He leaped up, electrified, and then hesitated. Perhaps it was Skeel and the others after him. But a quick look across the snow showed him no one was in sight. Tom reasoned quickly.