At twelve o’clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun wastoo far south on its winter journey to clear the horizon. The bulgeof the earth intervened between it and Henderson Creek， wherethe man walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no shadow.
At half-past twelve， to the minute， he arrived at the forks of thecreek. He was pleased at the speed he had made. If he kept itup， he would certainly be with the boys by six. He unbuttonedhis jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The actionconsumed no more than a quarter of a minute， yet in that briefmoment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. He didnot put the mitten on， but， instead， struck the fingers a dozensharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snowcoveredlog to eat. The sting that followed upon the strikingof his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he wasstartled， he had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struckthe fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten， baring theother hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful，but the ice-muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fireand thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness， and as he chuckledhe noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also，he noted that the stinging which had first come to his toes whenhe sat down was already passing away. He wondered whetherthe toes were warm or numbed. He moved them inside themoccasins and decided that they were numbed.
He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was a bitfrightened. He stamped up and down until the stinging returnedinto the feet. It certainly was cold， was his thought. That manfrom Sulphur Creek had spoken the truth when telling how coldit sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed at him atthe time！ That showed one must not be too sure of things. Therewas no mistake about it， it was cold. He strode up and down，stamping his feet and threshing his arms， until reassured by thereturning warmth. Then he got out matches and proceeded tomake a fire. From the undergrowth， where high water of theprevious spring had lodged a supply of seasoned twigs， he gothis firewood. Working carefully from a small beginning， hesoon made a roaring fire， over which he thawed the ice fromhis face and in the protection of which he ate his biscuits. Forthe moment the cold of space was outwitted. The dog tooksatisfaction in the fire， stretching out close enough for warmthand far enough away to escape being singed.
When the man had finished， he filled his pipe and took hiscomfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled on his mittens，settled the ear-flaps of his cap firmly about his ears， and tookthe creek trail up the left fork. The dog was disappointed andyearned back toward the fire. This man did not know cold.
Possibly all the generations of his ancestry had been ignorantof cold， of real cold， of cold one hundred and seven degreesbelow freezing-point. But the dog knew； all its ancestryknew， and it had inherited the knowledge. And it knew that itwas not good to walk abroad in such fearful cold. It was thetime to lie snug in a hole in the snow and wait for a curtainof cloud to be drawn across the face of outer space whencethis cold came. On the other hand， there was keen intimacybetween the dog and the man. The one was the toil-slave ofthe other， and the only caresses it had ever received were thecaresses of the whip-lash and of harsh and menacing throatsoundsthat threatened the whip-lash. So the dog made noeffort to communicate its apprehension to the man. It was notconcerned in the welfare of the man； it was for its own sakethat it yearned back toward the fire. But the man whistled， andspoke to it with the sound of whip-lashes， and the dog swungin at the man’s heels and followed after.
The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start anew amber beard. Also， his moist breath quickly powderedwith white his moustache， eyebrows， and lashes. There did notseem to be so many springs on the left fork of the Henderson，and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And thenit happened. At a place where there were no signs， where thesoft， unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath， theman broke through. It was not deep. He wetted himself halfwayto the knees before he floundered out to the firm crust.
He was angry， and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped toget into camp with the boys at six o’clock， and this woulddelay him an hour， for he would have to build a fire and dry outhis foot-gear. This was imperative at that low temperature—heknew that much； and he turned aside to the bank， which heclimbed. On top， tangled in the underbrush about the trunksof several small spruce trees， was a high-water deposit of dryfirewood—sticks and twigs principally， but also larger portionsof seasoned branches and fine， dry， last-year’s grasses. Hethrew down several large pieces on top of the snow. Thisserved for a foundation and prevented the young flame fromdrowning itself in the snow it otherwise would melt. The flamehe got by touching a match to a small shred of birch-bark thathe took from his pocket. This burned even more readily thanpaper. Placing it on the foundation， he fed the young flamewith wisps of dry grass and with the tiniest dry twigs.
He worked slowly and carefully， keenly aware of his danger.
Gradually， as the flame grew stronger， he increased the size ofthe twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow， pullingthe twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feedingdirectly to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. Whenit is seventy-five below zero， a man must not fail in his firstattempt to build a fire—that is， if his feet are wet. If his feet aredry， and he fails， he can run along the trail for half a mile andrestore his circulation. But the circulation of wet and freezingfeet cannot be restored by running when it is seventy-five below.
No matter how fast he runs， the wet feet will freeze the harder.