The men stood silent for a moment; then the Colonel remarked: 

“Red is the least valuable”—­a long pause—­“but Nig’s feet are in the worst condition.  That dog won’t travel a mile further.  Well,” added the Colonel after a bit, as the Boy stood speechless studying the team, “what do you say?”

“Me?” He looked up like a man who has been dreaming and is just awake.  “Oh, I should say our friend Nig here has had to stand more than his share of the racket.”

“Poor old Nig!” said the Colonel, with a somewhat guilty air.  “Look here:  what do you say to seeing whether they can go if we help ’em with that load?”

“Good for you, Colonel!” said the Boy, with confidence wonderfully restored.  “I was just thinking the same.”

They unlashed the pack, and the Colonel wanted to make two bundles of the bedding and things; but whether the Boy really thought the Colonel was giving out, or whether down in some corner of his mind he recognised the fact that if the Colonel were not galled by this extra burden he might feel his hunger less, and so be less prone to thoughts of poor Nig in the pot—­however it was, he said the bundle was his business for the first hour.  So the Colonel did the driving, and the Boy tramped on ahead, breaking trail with thirty-five pounds on his back.  And he didn’t give it up, either, though he admitted long after it was the toughest time he had ever put in in all his life.

“Haven’t you had about enough of this?” the Colonel sang out at dusk.

“Pretty nearly,” said the Boy in a rather weak voice.  He flung off the pack, and sat on it.

“Get up,” says the Colonel; “give us the sleepin’-bag.”  When it was undone, the Norfolk jacket dropped out.  He rolled it up against the sled, flung himself down, and heavily dropped his head on the rough pillow.  But he sprang up.

“What?  Yes.  By the Lord!” He thrust his hand into the capacious pocket of the jacket, and pulled out some broken ship’s biscuit.  “Hard tack, by the living Jingo!” He was up, had a few sticks alight, and the kettle on, and was melting snow to pour on the broken biscuit.  “It swells, you know, like thunder!”

The Boy was still sitting on the bundle of “trade” tea and tobacco.  He seemed not to hear; he seemed not to see the Colonel, shakily hovering about the fire, pushing aside the green wood and adding a few sticks of dry.

There was a mist before the Colonel’s eyes.  Reaching after a bit of seasoned spruce, he stumbled, and unconsciously set his foot on Nig’s bleeding paw.  The dog let out a yell and flew at him.  The Colonel fell back with an oath, picked up a stick, and laid it on.  The Boy was on his feet in a flash.

“Here! stop that!” He jumped in between the infuriated man and the infuriated dog.

“Stand back!” roared the Colonel.

“It was your fault; you trod—­”

“Stand back, damn you! or you’ll get hurt.”