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.