"Wat's the mattaire?"
"I froze my foot two days ago—snow-shoe strap too tight." He exhibited a heel, from which, in removing his inner sock, the flesh and skin had come away.
"That's all right," grinned Pierre. "You got the beeg will lef' yet.
It take the heducate man for stan' the col', you know."
Willard gritted his teeth.
They awoke to the whine of a grey windstorm that swept the cutting snow in swirling clouds and made travel a madness. The next day was worse.
Two days of hunger weigh heavy when the cold weakens, and they grew gaunt and fell away in their features.
"I'm glad we've got another feed for the dogs," remarked Willard. "We can't let them run hungry, even if we do."
"I t'ink she's be hall right to-mor'," ventured Pierre. "Thees ain't snow—jus' win'; bimeby all blow hout. Sacre! I'll can eat 'nuff for 'ole harmy."
For days both men had been cold, and the sensation of complete warmth had come to seem strange and unreal, while their faces cracked where the spots had been.
Willard felt himself on the verge of collapse. He recalled his words about strong men, gazing the while at Pierre. The Canadian evinced suffering only in the haggard droop of eye and mouth; otherwise he looked strong and dogged.