A great section had fallen out of the rock, forming a
little cave, storm-proof and dry.
"Thank God once more!" he said, and this time with even deeper
reverence. "Now for a fire. If I could only get some birch bark."
He placed his rifle in a corner of the cave and went out on his hunt.
"By Jove, I must hurry, or my hands will be gone sure." Looking upwards
in the shelter of the rock through the driving snow he saw the bare tops
of trees. "Birch, too, as I am alive!" he cried, and plunging through
the bushes came upon a clump of white birches.
With fingers that could hardly hold the curling bark he gathered a few
bunches and hurried back to the cave. Again he went forth and gathered
from the standing trees an armful of dead dry limbs. "Good!" he cried
aloud in triumph. "We're not beaten yet. Now for the fire and supper."
He drew forth his steel matchbox with numb and shaking fingers, opened
it and stood stricken dumb. There were only three matches in the box.
Unreasoning terror seized him. Three chances for life! He chose a match,
struck it, but in his numb and nerveless fingers the match snapped
near the head. With a new terror seizing him he took a second match and
struck it. The match flared, sputtering. Eagerly he thrust the birch
bark at it; too eagerly, alas, for the bark rubbed out the tiny flame.
Pages:
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374