He bore away to the left， stopping now and again to eatmuskeg berries. His ankle had stiffened， his limp was morepronounced， but the pain of it was as nothing comparedwith the pain of his stomach. The hunger pangs weresharp. They gnawed and gnawed until he could not keephis mind steady on the course he must pursue to gain theland of little sticks. The muskeg berries did not allay thisgnawing， while they made his tongue and the roof of hismouth sore with their irritating bite.
He came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose onwhirring wings from the ledges and muskegs. Ker—ker—ker was the cry they made. He threw stones at them， butcould not hit them. He placed his pack on the groundand stalked them as a cat stalks a sparrow. The sharprocks cut through his pants’ legs till his knees left a trailof blood； but the hurt was lost in the hurt of his hunger.
He squirmed over the wet moss， saturating his clothesand chilling his body； but he was not aware of it， so greatwas his fever for food. And always the ptarmigan rose，whirring， before him， till their ker—ker—ker became amock to him， and he cursed them and cried aloud at themwith their own cry.
Once he crawled upon one that must have been asleep.
He did not see it till it shot up in his face from its rockynook. He made a clutch as startled as was the rise of theptarmigan， and there remained in his hand three tailfeathers.
As he watched its flight he hated it， as though ithad done him some terrible wrong. Then he returned andshouldered his pack.
As the day wore along he came into valleys or swaleswhere game was more plentiful. A band of caribou passedby， twenty and odd animals， tantalizingly within riflerange. He felt a wild desire to run after them， a certitudethat he could run them down. A black fox came towardhim， carrying a ptarmigan in his mouth. The man shouted.
It was a fearful cry， but the fox， leaping away in fright， didnot drop the ptarmigan.
Late in the afternoon he followed a stream， milky withlime， which ran through sparse patches of rush-grass.
Grasping these rushes firmly near the root， he pulled upwhat resembled a young onion-sprout no larger than ashingle-nail. It was tender， and his teeth sank into it witha crunch that promised deliciously of food. But its fiberswere tough. It was composed of stringy filaments saturatedwith water， like the berries， and devoid of nourishment.
He threw off his pack and went into the rush-grass onhands and knees， crunching and munching， like somebovine creature.
He was very weary and often wished to rest—to liedown and sleep； but he was continually driven on—not somuch by his desire to gain the land of little sticks as by hishunger. He searched little ponds for frogs and dug up theearth with his nails for worms， though he knew in spitethat neither frogs nor worms existed so far north.
He looked into every pool of water vainly， until， as thelong twilight came on， he discovered a solitary fish， thesize of a minnow， in such a pool. He plunged his arm in upto the shoulder， but it eluded him. He reached for it withboth hands and stirred up the milky mud at the bottom.
In his excitement he fell in， wetting himself to the waist.
Then the water was too muddy to admit of his seeing thefish， and he was compelled to wait until the sediment hadsettled.
The pursuit was renewed， till the water was againmuddied. But he could not wait. He unstrapped the tinbucket and began to bale the pool. He baled wildly at first，splashing himself and flinging the water so short a distancethat it ran back into the pool. He worked more carefully，striving to be cool， though his heart was pounding againsthis chest and his hands were trembling. At the end of halfan hour the pool was nearly dry. Not a cupful of waterremained. And there was no fish. He found a hiddencrevice among the stones through which it had escaped tothe adjoining and larger pool—a pool which he could notempty in a night and a day. Had he known of the crevice，he could have closed it with a rock at the beginning andthe fish would have been his.
Thus he thought， and crumpled up and sank down uponthe wet earth. At first he cried softly to himself， then hecried loudly to the pitiless desolation that ringed himaround； and for a long time after he was shaken by greatdry sobs.
He built a fire and warmed himself by drinking quartsof hot water， and made camp on a rocky ledge in the samefashion he had the night before. The last thing he did wasto see that his matches were dry and to wind his watch.
The blankets were wet and clammy. His ankle pulsed withpain. But he knew only that he was hungry， and throughhis restless sleep he dreamed of feasts and banquets and offood served and spread in all imaginable ways.
He awoke chilled and sick. There was no sun. The grayof earth and sky had become deeper， more profound. Araw wind was blowing， and the first flurries of snow werewhitening the hilltops. The air about him thickened andgrew white while he made a fire and boiled more water.
It was wet snow， half rain， and the flakes were large andsoggy. At first they melted as soon as they came in contactwith the earth， but ever more fell， covering the ground，putting out the fire， spoiling his supply of moss-fuel.
This was a signal for him to strap on his pack andstumble onward， he knew not where. He was notconcerned with the land of little sticks， nor with Bill andthe cache under the upturned canoe by the river Dease.
He was mastered by the verb “to eat.” He was hungermad.
He took no heed of the course he pursued， so longas that course led him through the swale bottoms. Hefelt his way through the wet snow to the watery muskegberries， and went by feel as he pulled up the rush-grass bythe roots. But it was tasteless stuff and did not satisfy. Hefound a weed that tasted sour and he ate all he could findof it， which was not much， for it was a creeping growth，easily hidden under the several inches of snow.
