“For all time. May I smoke your pipe? The missionary taught me that tobacco soothes.” Walton filled and lighted his pipe, then handed it to the Eskimo. “Thanks, my son!”
Walton remained silent until the native returned the pipe. The bowl still glowed. Fire! That was what he craved next to food. Again he found solace in the glowing bowl. The Eskimo placed the skin of oil at Walton’s feet. “You thought you would never come to it, but you will. You will even gnaw the skin itself.” The walrus-hide came next; then the native slowly pulled off his parka.
Walton leaped to his feet. “Hold on!” he cried. “What are you thinking of?”
“We are different; each man’s code prevails, my son!” replied the native. “Your race must go on, even as mine. You are young and—worthy.”
“Hell!” Walton jerked the parka back on. “Let’s stick it out together. And anyway, I wont be missed, and don’t worry about my race not going on. There’s over a hundred million of them left, and they’ll get along somehow.” Gently he pushed the old man to the ice and wrapped the walrus-hide about him. “Stay right there, old-timer. I’ll take a sip of the oil, if you don’t mind, though.” He put the skin to his mouth and withdrew it abruptly. “Ugh! I can’t do it!”
Walton lighted his pipe and propped himself against a convenient block of ice. The wind could not reach him; he would be comfortable until the cold got to him once more; then he’d have to leap about a bit. He closed his eyes and found strange peace and contentment, for he had measured up to the standard of his breed. More, he had at last found himself. He was too late, of course, and he wouldn’t be missed much, except by the folks at home. “If there was only some way of getting word to the folks,” he mused. “As it is, they’ll always remember me as I was. They’ll never know what happened—and Father will go down to his grave, never knowing that what he did was right....” The pipe clattered to the ice, as Walton at last fell asleep.
The Eskimo reached forth and finished the pipe. Then he stood up and wrapped the walrus-skin about the sleeping white man. He shivered as he stripped off his parka and placed it with his mukluks on the ice. Presently his naked feet touched the ice; the frost-laden wind nipped at his wrinkled skin as he made his way to the floe’s edge. Water, black and dreary, surged about the floe, waiting. “That the race may go on!” he whispered. “My code holds throughout time. God help—the lad.”
Walton was warm when he awakened. At first he could not understand. He must have slept long, because the sun was shining somewhere behind the southerly arc of that leaden sky. There was protest on his lips as he crawled from beneath the walrus-hide. “Now, I say—” he began; then he understood. The skin of seal-oil, the pitiful furry pile of parka and other garments, the stiff mukluks, told it all. Except for the single sip, the skin of oil had been untouched. The native had starved with him, then left him his all. Walton made his way to the water’s edge, taking the trail trod by naked feet not many hours ago. He looked thoughtfully at the water as if seeking means to convey that which was in his heart.
“‘Greater love hath no man—’” he began, then dropped to his knees. The water lapped desolately at the floe as if to claim it and that which it held for all time; the breath of the Arctic nipped spitefully at the exposed parts of his face. “O God,” he cried, “make me worthy of the sacrifice of a—Man!”