On the morning of the third day, however, while travelling over a rough section of country near the winding, interminable river, Dick was reminded again of the tracks. His own toes had worn through his moccasins. There was a hole about the size of a silver dollar in each one of his heels. In another day or so, he, too, would be walking barefoot, much as he dreaded to think of it, making those peculiar and tragic marks in the sand.
He glanced over at Sandy’s moccasins and noted with a sinking of the heart that his were even in worse condition than his own. Toma’s were in better shape, but also very badly worn. Soon they must all endure the torture of going unshod, or else cut up their moosehide coats and make new footgear.
None of the three wanted to part with his coat. The nights were often chilly and it would be a positive hardship to do without them.
“I’d almost as soon go barefoot,” declared Sandy.
“Yes, I know,” Dick’s face clouded, “but do you think we can endure these forced marches if our feet are cut and bruised? Mine are beginning to cause me untold suffering now. You, Sandy, are limping. No! Don’t try to deny it. I’ve been watching you. A few more bruises, a few more scratches and cuts, and we won’t be able to walk five miles a day. You may not have noticed it, but already we have begun to slacken down. I don’t believe we made more than eighteen miles yesterday. We put in the hours but we don’t seem to get the results. I’ll admit that it’s tough going through here, but we won’t find anything better until we reach the seventh portage.”
“I know it,” sighed the other. “Yet I hate to part with my coat. Say—where in the dickens has Toma gone?”
“I saw him around here only a few minutes ago,” Dick answered absent-mindedly, still absorbed with the pressing problem of footgear.
“No, you didn’t,” his chum flatly contradicted. “He’s been away a long time now—over an hour, I’m sure. I’m beginning to worry about him.”
“Probably away somewhere getting fish for breakfast,” Dick decided.
“He’s done that already.”