The Boy, blinking hard, said:  “Yes, old man, I know, that was a mean breakfast; and he patted the shaggy chest.  Nig bent his proud head and licked the rescuing hand with his bleeding tongue.

“An’ you say that dog hasn’t got feelin’s!”

They hitched the team and pushed on.  In the absence of a trail, the best they could do was to keep to the river ice.  By-and-bye: 

“Can you see the river bank?”

“I’m not sure,” said the Boy.

“I thought you were going it blind.”

“I believe I’d better let Nig have his head,” said the Boy, stopping; “he’s the dandy trail-finder.  Nig, old man, I takes off my hat to you!”

They pushed ahead till the half-famished dogs gave out.  They camped under the lee of the propped sled, and slept the sleep of exhaustion.

The next morning dawned clear and warm.  The Colonel managed to get a little wood and started a fire.  There were a few spoonfuls of meal in the bottom of the bag and a little end of bacon, mostly rind.  The sort of soup the dogs had had yesterday was good enough for men to-day.  The hot and watery brew gave them strength enough to strike camp and move on.  The elder man began to say to himself that he would sell his life dearly.  He looked at the dogs a good deal, and then would look at the Boy, but he could never catch his eye.  At last:  “They say, you know, that men in our fix have sometimes had to sacrifice a dog.”

“Ugh!” The Boy’s face expressed nausea at the thought.

“Yes, it is pretty revolting.”

“We could never do it.”

“N-no,” said the Colonel.

The three little Esquimaux horses were not only very hungry, their feet were in a bad condition, and were bleeding.  The Boy had shut his eyes at first at the sight of their red tracks in the snow.  He hardly noticed them now.

An hour or so later:  “Better men than we,” says the Colonel significantly, “have had to put their feelings in their pockets.”  As if he found the observation distinctly discouraging, Nig at this moment sat down in the melting snow, and no amount of “mushing” moved him.

“Let’s give him half an hour’s rest, Colonel.  Valuable beast, you know—­altogether best team on the river,” said the Boy, as if to show that his suggestion was not inspired by mere pity for the bleeding dogs.  “And you look rather faded yourself, Colonel.  Sit down and rest.”

Nothing more was said for a full half-hour, till the Colonel, taking off his fur hat, and wiping his beaded forehead on the back of his hand, remarked:  “Think of the Siege of Paris.”

“Eh?  What?” The Boy stared as if afraid his partner’s brain had given way.

“When the horses gave out they had to eat dogs, cats, rats even.  Think of it—­rats!”

“The French are a dirty lot.  Let’s mush, Colonel.  I’m as fit as a fiddle.”  The Boy got up and called the dogs.  In ten minutes they were following the blind trail again.  But the sled kept clogging, sticking fast and breaking down.  After a desperate bout of ineffectual pulling, the dogs with one mind stopped again, and lay down in their bloody tracks.