“What would you do without me?” said the Crow with a ghastly grin.
They cannot kindle a fire, for Greenhill, who carries the tinder, has allowed it to get wet. The giant swings his axe in savage anger at enforced cold, and Vetch takes an opportunity to remark privately to him what a big man Greenhill is.
On the fourteenth day they can scarcely crawl, and their limbs pain them. Greenhill, who is the weakest, sees Gabbett and the Moocher go aside to consult, and crawling to the Crow, whimpers: “For God's sake, Jemmy, don't let 'em murder me!”
“I can't help you,” says Vetch, looking about in terror. “Think of poor Tom Bodenham.”
“But he was no murderer. If they kill me, I shall go to hell with Tom's blood on my soul.” He writhes on the ground in sickening terror, and Gabbett arriving, bids Vetch bring wood for the fire. Vetch, going, sees Greenhill clinging to wolfish Gabbett's knees, and Sanders calls after him, “You will hear it presently, Jem.”
The nervous Crow puts his hand to his ears, but is conscious of a dull crash and a groan. When he comes back, Gabbett is putting on the dead man's shoes, which are better than his own.
“We'll stop here a day or so and rest,” said he, “now we've got provisions.”
Two more days pass, and the three, eyeing each other suspiciously, resume their march. The third day—the sixteenth of their awful journey—such portions of the carcase as they have with them prove unfit to eat. They look into each other's famine-sharpened faces, and wonder “who's next?”
“We must all die together,” said Sanders quickly, “before anything else must happen.”
Vetch marks the terror concealed in the words, and when the dreaded giant is out of earshot, says, “For God's sake, let's go on alone, Alick. You see what sort of a cove that Gabbett is—he'd kill his father before he'd fast one day.”