“No more second helpin’s,” he said in self-defence; “this’ll freeze into cakes for luncheon.”

No answer.  No implied apology for that look.  In the tone his pardner had come to dread the Colonel began:  “If we don’t strike a settlement to-morrow——­”

“Don’t talk!"

The Boy’s tired arm fell on the handle of the frying-pan.  Over it went—­rice, water, and all in the fire.  The culprit sprang up speechless with dismay, enraged at the loss of the food he was hungry for—­enraged at “the fool fry-pan”—­enraged at the fool Colonel for balancing it so badly.

A column of steam and smoke rose into the frosty air between the two men.  As it cleared away a little the Boy could see the Colonel’s bloodshot eyes.  The expression was ill to meet.

When they crouched down again, with the damped-out fire between them, a sense of utter loneliness fell upon each man’s heart.

* * * * *

The next morning, when they came to digging the sled out of the last night’s snow-drift, the Boy found to his horror that he was weaker—­yes, a good deal.  As they went on he kept stumbling.  The Colonel fell every now and then.  Sometimes he would lie still before he could pull himself on his legs again.

In these hours they saw nothing of the grim and splendid waste; nothing of the ranks of snow-laden trees; nothing of sun course or of stars, only the half-yard of dazzling trail in front of them, and —­clairvoyant—­the little store of flour and bacon that seemed to shrink in the pack while they dragged it on.

Apart from partial snow-blindness, which fell at intervals upon the Colonel, the tiredness of the eyes was like a special sickness upon them both.  For many hours together they never raised their lids, looking out through slits, cat-like, on the world.

They had not spoken to each other for many days—­or was it only hours?—­when the Colonel, looking at the Boy, said: 

“You’ve got to have a face-guard.  Those frostbites are eating in.”

“’Xpect so.”

“You ought to stop it.  Make a guard.”

“Out of a snow-ball, or chunk o’ ice?”

“Cut a piece out o’ the canvas o’ the bag.”  But he didn’t.

The big sores seemed such small matters beside the vast overshadowing doubt, Shall we come out of this alive?—­doubt never to be openly admitted by him, but always knocking, knocking——­

“You can’t see your own face,” the Colonel persisted.

“One piece o’ luck, anyhow.”

The old habit of looking after the Boy died hard.  The Colonel hesitated.  For the last time he would remonstrate.  “I used to think frost_bite_ was a figure o’ speech,” said he, “but the teeth were set in your face, sonny, and they’ve bitten deep; they’ll leave awful scars.”

“Battles do, I b’lieve.”  And it was with an effort that he remembered there had been a time when they had been uncomfortable because they hadn’t washed their faces.  Now, one man was content to let the very skin go if he could keep the flesh on his face, and one was little concerned even for that.  Life—­life!  To push on and come out alive.