All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur Creek hadtold him about it the previous fall， and now he was appreciatingthe advice. Already all sensation had gone out of his feet. Tobuild the fire he had been forced to remove his mittens， and thefingers had quickly gone numb. His pace of four miles an hourhad kept his heart pumping blood to the surface of his body andto all the extremities. But the instant he stopped， the action ofthe pump eased down. The cold of space smote the unprotectedtip of the planet， and he， being on that unprotected tip， receivedthe full force of the blow. The blood of his body recoiled beforeit. The blood was alive， like the dog， and like the dog it wantedto hide away and cover itself up from the fearful cold. So longas he walked four miles an hour， he pumped that blood， willynilly，to the surface； but now it ebbed away and sank down intothe recesses of his body. The extremities were the first to feel itsabsence. His wet feet froze the faster， and his exposed fingersnumbed the faster， though they had not yet begun to freeze.
Nose and cheeks were already freezing， while the skin of all hisbody chilled as it lost its blood.
But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be onlytouched by the frost， for the fire was beginning to burn withstrength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of his finger. Inanother minute he would be able to feed it with branches thesize of his wrist， and then he could remove his wet foot-gear，and， while it dried， he could keep his naked feet warm by thefire， rubbing them at first， of course， with snow. The fire wasa success. He was safe. He remembered the advice of the oldtimeron Sulphur Creek， and smiled. The old-timer had beenvery serious in laying down the law that no man must travelalone in the Klondike after fifty below. Well， here he was； he hadhad the accident； he was alone； and he had saved himself. Thoseold-timers were rather womanish， some of them， he thought. Alla man had to do was to keep his head， and he was all right. Anyman who was a man could travel alone. But it was surprising，the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were freezing. Andhe had not thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short atime. Lifeless they were， for he could scarcely make them movetogether to grip a twig， and they seemed remote from his bodyand from him. When he touched a twig， he had to look and seewhether or not he had hold of it. The wires were pretty welldown between him and his finger-ends.
All of which counted for little. There was the fire， snappingand crackling and promising life with every dancing flame.
He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice；the thick German socks were like sheaths of iron half-way tothe knees； and the mocassin strings were like rods of steel alltwisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a momenthe tugged with his numbed fingers， then， realizing the folly ofit， he drew his sheath-knife.
But before he could cut the strings， it happened. It was hisown fault or， rather， his mistake. He should not have built thefire under the spruce tree. He should have built it in the open.
But it had been easier to pull the twigs from the brush anddrop them directly on the fire. Now the tree under which hehad done this carried a weight of snow on its boughs. No windhad blown for weeks， and each bough was fully freighted.
Each time he had pulled a twig he had communicated a slightagitation to the tree—an imperceptible agitation， so far as hewas concerned， but an agitation sufficient to bring about thedisaster. High up in the tree one bough capsized its load ofsnow. This fell on the boughs beneath， capsizing them. Thisprocess continued， spreading out and involving the whole tree.
It grew like an avalanche， and it descended without warningupon the man and the fire， and the fire was blotted out！ Whereit had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.
The man was shocked. It was as though he had just heard hisown sentence of death. For a moment he sat and stared at thespot where the fire had been. Then he grew very calm. Perhapsthe old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right. If he had only hada trail-mate he would have been in no danger now. The trailmatecould have built the fire. Well， it was up to him to buildthe fire over again， and this second time there must be nofailure. Even if he succeeded， he would most likely lose sometoes. His feet must be badly frozen by now， and there would besome time before the second fire was ready.
Such were his thoughts， but he did not sit and think them. Hewas busy all the time they were passing through his mind， hemade a new foundation for a fire， this time in the open； where notreacherous tree could blot it out. Next， he gathered dry grassesand tiny twigs from the high-water flotsam. He could not bringhis fingers together to pull them out， but he was able to gatherthem by the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs andbits of green moss that were undesirable， but it was the best hecould do. He worked methodically， even collecting an armfulof the larger branches to be used later when the fire gatheredstrength. And all the while the dog sat and watched him， acertain yearning wistfulness in its eyes， for it looked upon himas the fire-provider， and the fire was slow in coming.
When all was ready， the man reached in his pocket for asecond piece of birch-bark. He knew the bark was there， and，though he could not feel it with his fingers， he could hear itscrisp rustling as he fumbled for it. Try as he would， he couldnot clutch hold of it. And all the time， in his consciousness，was the knowledge that each instant his feet were freezing.