“It’s a lovely day, and we’ll have a treat for dinner,” he informed himself.  “No need of starving.  We’ll have a real feast.  I’ll cook seven prunes instead of five!”

He built a small fire, hung two small pots over it, selected his prunes, and measured out a tablespoonful of black tea.  In the respite he had while the water heated he dug a small mirror out of the sack and looked at himself.  His long, untrimmed hair was blond, and the inch of stubble on his face was brick red.  There were tiny creases at the corners of his eyes, caused by the blistering sleet and cold wind of the Arctic coast.  He grimaced as he studied himself.  Then his face lighted up with sudden inspiration.

“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed.  “I need a shave!  We’ll use the prune water.”

From the rubber bag he fished out his razor, a nubbin of soap, and a towel.  For fifteen minutes after that he sat cross-legged on the sand, with the mirror on a rock, and worked.  When he had finished he inspected himself closely.

“You’re not half bad,” he concluded, and he spoke seriously now.  “Four years ago when you started up here you were thirty—­and you looked forty.  Now you’re thirty-four, and if it wasn’t for the snow lines in your eyes I’d say you were a day or two younger.  That’s pretty good.”

He had washed his face and was drying it with the towel when a sound made him look over beyond the rocks.  It was the crackling sound made by a dead stick stepped upon, or a sapling broken down.  Either meant the bear.

Dropping the towel, he unbuttoned the flap to the holster of his revolver, took a peep to see how long he could leave the water before it would boil, and stepped cautiously in the direction of the sound.  A dozen paces beyond the bulwark of rocks he came upon a fairly well-worn moose trail; surveying its direction from the top of a boulder, he made up his mind that the bear was dining on mountain-ash berries where he saw one of the huge crimson splashes of the fruit a hundred yards away.

He went on quietly.  Under the big ash tree there was no sign of a feast, recent or old.  He proceeded, the trail turning almost at right angles from the ash tree, as if about to bury itself in the deeper forest.  His exploratory instinct led him on for another hundred yards, when the trail swung once more to the left.  He heard the swift trickling run of water among rocks, and again a sound.  But his mind did not associate the sound which he heard this time with the one made by the bear.  It was not the breaking of a stick or the snapping of brush.  It was more a part of the musical water-sound itself, a strange key struck once to interrupt the monotone of a rushing stream.

Over a gray hog-back of limestone Philip climbed to look down into a little valley of smooth-washed boulders and age-crumbled rock through which the stream picked its way.  He descended to the white margin of sand and turned sharply to the right, where a little pool had formed at the base of a huge rock.  And there he stopped, his heart in his throat, every fibre in his body charged with a sudden electrical thrill at what he beheld.  For a moment he was powerless to move.  He stood—­and stared.