"Get on the toboggan, Maurice! Come, wake up!" Macgregor was saying. "Wake up!"
Dimly he realized that he was sitting on the ice—that they had stopped—that Fred was up again. Too stupefied to question anything, he rolled into the blanket out of which Fred had crawled, and instantly went sound asleep.
It seemed only a moment until he was roused again. Drunk with sleep, he clutched the towrope blindly, while Fred, who was completely done this time, again took his place on the sledge. Only Macgregor seemed proof against fatigue. Bent against the gale, he skated vigorously at the forward end of the line, and his strong voice shouted back encouragements that Maurice hardly heard.
The snow was now growing so deep on the ice that the skates ploughed through it with difficulty. Still the boys labored on, minute after minute, mile after mile. Maurice felt numb with fatigue and half asleep as he skated blindly, and suddenly he ran sharply into Macgregor, who had stopped short. There was another break just ahead—a long cascade this time, where snowy pocks showed like white blurs on the black water.
"Going to portage?" mumbled Maurice.
"No use trying to go any farther," replied the medical student, and his voice was hoarse. "Fred's played out. Snow's getting too deep, anyway. Better camp here."
Maurice would have been glad to drop where he stood. But they dragged the toboggan ashore somehow, caring little where they landed it. Peter rolled Fred off into the snow. The boy groaned, but did not waken, and they began to unpack the supplies with stiffened hands.
"Got to get something hot into us quick," said Peter thickly. "Help me make a fire."
Probably they were all nearer death than they realized. Maurice wanted only to sleep. However, in a sort of daze, he broke off branches, peeled bark, and they had a fire blazing up in the falling snowflakes. The wind whirled and scattered it, but they piled on larger sticks, and Macgregor filled the kettle from the river. When the water was hot he poured in a whole tin of condensed milk, added a cake of chocolate, a handful of sugar and another of oatmeal, too stiffened to measure out anything.
Maurice had collapsed into a dead sleep in the snow. Peter shook him awake, and between them they managed to arouse Fred with great difficulty. Still half asleep they swallowed the rich, steaming mess from the kettle. It set their blood moving again, but they were too thoroughly worn out to think of building a camp. They crept into their sleeping-bags, buttoned the naps down over their heads and went to sleep regardless of consequences.