At twelve o’clock the day was at its brightest. Yet thesun was too far south on its winter journey to clear thehorizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it andHenderson Creek， where the man walked under a clearsky at noon and cast no shadow. At half-past twelve， tothe minute， he arrived at the forks of the creek. He waspleased at the speed he had made. If he kept it up， hewould certainly be with the boys by six. He unbuttonedhis jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The actionconsumed no more than a quarter of a minute， yet in thatbrief moment the numbness laid hold of the exposedfingers. He did not put the mitten on， but， instead， struckthe fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Thenhe sat down on a snow-covered log to eat. The sting thatfollowed upon the striking of his fingers against his legceased so quickly that he was startled. He had had nochance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingersrepeatedly and returned them to the mitten， baringthe other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried totake a mouthful， but the ice-muzzle prevented. He hadforgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at hisfoolishness， and as he chuckled he noted the numbnesscreeping into the exposed fingers. Also， he noted thatthe stinging which had first come to his toes when he satdown was already passing away. He wondered whetherthe toes were warm or numb. He moved them inside themoccasins and decided that they were numb.
He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. Hewas a bit frightened. He stamped up and down until thestinging returned into the feet. It certainly was cold， washis thought. That man from Sulphur Creek had spokenthe truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in thecountry. And he had laughed at him at the time！ Thatshowed one must not be too sure of things. There wasno mistake about it， it wascold. He strode up and down，stamping his feet and threshing his arms， until reassuredby the returning warmth. Then he got out matches andproceeded to make a fire. From the undergrowth， wherehigh water of the previous spring had lodged a supply ofseasoned twigs， he got his fire-wood. Working carefullyfrom a small beginning， he soon had a roaring fire，over which he thawed the ice from his face and in theprotection of which he ate his biscuits. For the momentthe cold of space was outwitted. The dog took satisfactionin the fire， stretching out close enough for warmth and farenough away to escape being singed.
When the man had finished， he filled his pipe and tookhis comfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled onhis mittens， settled the ear-flaps of his cap firmly abouthis ears， and took the creek trail up the left fork. The dogwas disappointed and yearned back toward the fire. Thisman did not know cold. Possibly all the generations of hisancestry had been ignorant of cold， of real cold， of coldone hundred and seven degrees below freezing-point. Butthe dog knew； all its ancestry knew， and it had inheritedthe knowledge. And it knew that it was not good to walkabroad in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug ina hole in the snow and wait for a curtain of cloud to bedrawn across the face of outer space whence this coldcame. On the other hand， there was no keen intimacybetween the dog and the man. The one was the toil-slaveof the other， and the only caresses it had ever receivedwere the caresses of the whip-lash and of harsh andmenacing throat-sounds that threatened the whip-lash. Sothe dog made no effort to communicate its apprehensionto the man. It was not concerned in the welfare of theman； it was for its own sake that it yearned back towardthe fire. But the man whistled， and spoke to it with thesound of whip-lashes， and the dog swung in at the man’sheels and followed after.
The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded tostart a new amber beard. Also， his moist breath quicklypowdered with white his mustache， eyebrows， and lashes.
There did not seem to be so many springs on the left forkof the Henderson， and for half an hour the man saw nosigns of any. And then it happened. At a place where therewere no signs， where the soft， unbroken snow seemed toadvertise solidity beneath， the man broke through. It wasnot deep. He wet himself halfway to the knees before hefloundered out to the firm crust.
He was angry， and cursed his luck aloud. He had hopedto get into camp with the boys at six o’clock， and thiswould delay him an hour， for he would have to build afire and dry out his foot-gear. This was imperative at thatlow temperature—he knew that much； and he turnedaside to the bank， which he climbed. On top， tangled inthe underbrush about the trunks of several small sprucetrees， was a high-water deposit of dry fire-wood—sticksand twigs， principally， but also larger portions of seasonedbranches and fine， dry， last-year’s grasses. He threw downseveral large pieces on top of the snow. This served for afoundation and prevented the young flame from drowningitself in the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame hegot by touching a match to a small shred of birch-barkthat he took from his pocket. This burned even morereadily than paper. Placing it on the foundation， he fed theyoung flame with wisps of dry grass and with the tiniestdry twigs.
He worked slowly and carefully， keenly aware of hisdanger. Gradually， as the flame grew stronger， he increasedthe size of the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted inthe snow， pulling the twigs out from their entanglementin the brush and feeding directly to the flame. He knewthere must be no failure. When it is seventy-five belowzero， a man must not fail in his first attempt to build afire—that is， if his feet are wet. If his feet are dry， and hefails， he can run along the trail for half a mile and restorehis circulation. But the circulation of wet and freezingfeet cannot be restored by running when it is seventy-fivebelow. No matter how fast he runs， the wet feet will freezethe harder.