He bore away to the left， stopping now and again to eatmuskegberries. His ankle had stiffened， his limp was morepronounced， but the pain of it was as nothing compared withthe pain of his stomach. The hunger pangs were sharp. Theygnawed and gnawed until he could not keep his mind steady onthe course he must pursue to gain the land of little sticks. Themuskeg berries did not allay this gnawing， while they made histongue and the roof of his mouth sore with their irritating bite.
He came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose onwhirring wings from the ledges and muskegs. Ker—ker—kerwas the cry they made. He threw stones at them， but couldnot hit them. He placed his pack on the ground and stalkedthem as a cat stalks a sparrow. The sharp rocks cut throughhis pants’ legs till his knees left a trail of blood； but the hurtwas lost in the hurt of his hunger. He squirmed over the wetmoss， saturating his clothes and chilling his body； but he wasnot aware of it， so great was his fever for food. And always theptarmigan rose， whirring， before him， till their ker—ker—kerbecame a mock to him， and he cursed them and cried aloud atthem with their own cry.
Once he crawled upon one that must have been asleep. Hedid not see it till it shot up in his face from its rocky nook. Hemade a clutch as startled as was the rise of the ptarmigan， andthere remained in his hand three tail-feathers. As he watchedits flight he hated it， as though it had done him some terriblewrong. Then he returned and shouldered his pack.
As the day wore along he came into valleys or swales wheregame was more plentiful. A band of caribou passed by， twentyand odd animals， tantalizingly within rifle range. He felt a wilddesire to run after them， a certitude that he could run themdown. A black fox came toward him， carrying a ptarmigan inhis mouth. The man shouted. It was a fearful cry， but the fox，leaping away in fright， did not drop the ptarmigan.
Late in the afternoon he followed a stream， milky with lime，which ran through sparse patches of rush-grass. Graspingthese rushes firmly near the root， he pulled up what resembleda young onion-sprout no larger than a shingle-nail. It wastender， and his teeth sank into it with a crunch that promiseddeliciously of food. But its fibers were tough. It was composedof stringy filaments saturated with water， like the berries， anddevoid of nourishment. He threw off his pack and went intothe rush-grass on hands and knees， crunching and munching，like some bovine creature.
He was very weary and often wished to rest—to lie downand sleep； but he was continually driven on—not so much byhis desire to gain the land of little sticks as by his hunger. Hesearched little ponds for frogs and dug up the earth with hisnails for worms， though he knew in spite that neither frogs norworms existed so far north.
He looked into every pool of water vainly， until， as thelong twilight came on， he discovered a solitary fish， the sizeof a minnow， in such a pool. He plunged his arm in up to theshoulder， but it eluded him. He reached for it with both handsand stirred up the milky mud at the bottom. In his excitementhe fell in， wetting himself to the waist. Then the water was toomuddy to admit of his seeing the fish， and he was compelled towait until the sediment had settled.
The pursuit was renewed， till the water was again muddied.
But he could not wait. He unstrapped the tin bucket and beganto bale the pool. He baled wildly at first， splashing himself andflinging the water so short a distance that it ran back into thepool. He worked more carefully， striving to be cool， thoughhis heart was pounding against his chest and his hands weretrembling. At the end of half an hour the pool was nearly dry.
Not a cupful of water remained. And there was no fish. Hefound a hidden crevice among the stones through which ithad escaped to the adjoining and larger pool—a pool whichhe could not empty in a night and a day. Had he known of thecrevice， he could have closed it with a rock at the beginningand the fish would have been his.
Thus he thought， and crumpled up and sank down uponthe wet earth. At first he cried softly to himself， then he criedloudly to the pitiless desolation that ringed him around； and fora long time after he was shaken by great dry sobs.
He built a fire and warmed himself by drinking quarts of hotwater， and made camp on a rocky ledge in the same fashion hehad the night before. The last thing he did was to see that hismatches were dry and to wind his watch. The blankets werewet and clammy. His ankle pulsed with pain. But he knew onlythat he was hungry， and through his restless sleep he dreamedof feasts and banquets and of food served and spread in allimaginable ways.
He awoke chilled and sick. There was no sun. The gray of earthand sky had become deeper， more profound. A raw wind wasblowing， and the first flurries of snow were whitening the hilltops.
The air about him thickened and grew white while he made a fireand boiled more water. It was wet snow， half rain， and the flakeswere large and soggy. At first they melted as soon as they camein contact with the earth， but ever more fell， covering the ground，putting out the fire， spoiling his supply of moss-fuel.
This was a signal for him to strap on his pack and stumbleonward， he knew not where. He was not concerned with theland of little sticks， nor with Bill and the cache under theupturned canoe by the river Dease. He was mastered by theverb “to eat.” He was hunger-mad. He took no heed of thecourse he pursued， so long as that course led him throughthe swale bottoms. He felt his way through the wet snow tothe watery muskeg berries， and went by feel as he pulled upthe rush-grass by the roots. But it was tasteless stuff and didnot satisfy. He found a weed that tasted sour and he ate all hecould find of it， which was not much， for it was a creepinggrowth， easily hidden under the several inches of snow.