This out of all will remain-

They have lived and have tossed:

So much of the game will be gain,

Though the gold of the dice has been lost.

They limped painfully down the bank, and once the foremost of the two men staggered among the rough-strewn rocks. They were tired and weak, and their faces had the drawn expression of patience which comes of hardship long endured. They were heavily burdened with blanket packs which were strapped to their shoulders. Head-straps, passing across the forehead, helped support these packs. Each man carried a rifle. They walked in a stooped posture, the shoulders well forward, the head still farther forward, the eyes bent upon the ground.

“I wish we had just about two of them cartridges that's layin’in that cache of ourn,”said the second man.

His voice was utterly and drearily expressionless. He spoke without enthusiasm; and the first man, limping into the milky stream that foamed over the rocks, vouchsafed no reply.

The other man followed at his heels. They did not remove their foot-gear, though the water was icy cold-so cold that their ankles ached and their feet went numb. In places the water dashed against their knees, and both men staggered for footing.

The man who followed slipped on a smooth boulder, nearly fell, but recovered himself with a violent effort, at the same time uttering a sharp exclamation of pain. He seemed faint and dizzy and put out his free hand while he reeled, as though seeking support against the air. When he had steadied himself he stepped forward, but reeled again and nearly fell. Then he stood still and looked at the other man, who had never turned his head.

The man stood still for fully a minute, as though debating with himself. Then he called out:

“I say, Bill, I've sprained my ankle.”

Bill staggered on through the milky water. He did not look around. The man watched him go, and though his face was expressionless as ever, his eyes were like the eyes of a wounded deer.

The other man limped up the farther bank and continued straight on without looking back. The man in the stream watched him. His lips trembled a little, so that the rough thatch of brown hair which covered them was visibly agitated. His tongue even strayed out to moisten them.

“Bill!”he cried out. It was the pleading cry of a strong man in distress, but Bill's head did not turn. The man watched him go, limping grotesquely and lurching forward with stammering gait up the slow slope toward the soft sky-line of the low-lying hill. He watched him go till he passed over the crest and disappeared. Then he turned his gaze and slowly took in the circle of the world that remained to him now that Bill was gone.

Near the horizon the sun was smouldering dimly, almost obscured by formless mists and vapors, which gave an impression of mass and density without outline or tangibility. The man pulled out his watch, the while resting his weight on one leg. It was four o'clock, and as the season was near the last of July or first of August, —he did not know the precise date within a week or two, —he knew that the sun roughly marked the northwest. He looked to the south and knew that somewhere beyond those bleak hills lay the Great Bear Lake; also, he knew that in that direction the Arctic Circle cut its forbidding way across the Canadian Barrens. This stream in which he stood was a feeder to the Coppermine River, which in turn flowed north and emptied into Coronation Gulf and the Arctic Ocean. He had never been there, but he had seen it, once, on a Hudson Bay Company chart.

Again his gaze completed the circle of the world about him. It was not a heartening spectacle. Everywhere was soft sky-line. The hills were all low-lying. There were no trees, no shrubs, no grasses-naught but a tremendous and terrible desolation that sent fear swiftly dawning into his eyes.

“Bill!”he whispered, once and twice;“Bill!”

He cowered in the midst of the milky water, as though the vastness were pressing in upon him with overwhelming force, brutally crushing him with its complacent awfulness. He began to shake as with an ague-fit, till the gun fell from his hand with a splash. This served to rouse him. He fought with his fear and pulled himself together, groping in the water and recovering the weapon. He hitched his pack farther over on his left shoulder, so as to take a portion of its weight from off the injured ankle. Then he proceeded, slowly and carefully, wincing with pain, to the bank.

He did not stop. With a desperation that was madness, unmindful of the pain, he hurried up the slope to the crest of the hill over which his comrade had disappeared-more grotesque and comical by far than that limping, jerking comrade. But at the crest he saw a shallow valley, empty of life. He fought with his fear again, overcame it, hitched the pack still farther over on his left shoulder, and lurched on down the slope.

The bottom of the valley was soggy with water, which the thick moss held, spongelike, close to the surface. This water squirted out from under his feet at every step, and each time he lifted a foot the action culminated in a sucking sound as the wet moss reluctantly released its grip. He picked his way from muskeg to muskeg, and followed the other man's footsteps along and across the rocky ledges which thrust like islets through the sea of moss.

Though alone, he was not lost. Farther on he knew he would come to where dead spruce and fir, very small and weazened, bordered the shore of a little lake, the titchin-nichilie, in the tongue of the country, the“l(fā)and of little sticks.”And into that lake flowed a small stream, the water of which was not milky. There was rush-grass on that stream-this he remembered well-but no timber, and he would follow it till its first trickle ceased at a divide. He would cross this divide to the first trickle of another stream, flowing to the west, which he would follow until it emptied into the river Dease, and here he would find a cache under an upturned canoe and piled over with many rocks. And in this cache would be ammunition for his empty gun, fish-hooks and lines, a small net-all the utilities for the killing and snaring of food. Also, he would find flour, -not much, -a piece of bacon, and some beans.

Bill would be waiting for him there, and they would paddle away south down the Dease to the Great Bear Lake. And south across the lake they would go, ever south, till they gained the Mackenzie. And south, still south, they would go, while the winter raced vainly after them, and the ice formed in the eddies, and the days grew chill and crisp, south to some warm Hudson Bay Company post, where timber grew tall and generous and there was grub without end.

These were the thoughts of the man as he strove onward. But hard as he strove with his body, he strove equally hard with his mind, trying to think that Bill had not deserted him,that Bill would surely wait for him at the cache. He was compelled to think this thought, or else there would not be any use to strive, and he would have lain down and died. And as the dim ball of the sun sank slowly into the northwest he covered every inch-and many times-of his and Bill's flight south before the downcoming winter. And he conned the grub of the cache and the grub of the Hudson Bay Company post over and over again. He had not eaten for two days; for a far longer time he had not had all he wanted to eat. Often he stooped and picked pale muskeg berries, put them into his mouth, and chewed and swallowed them. A muskeg berry is a bit of seed enclosed in a bit of water. In the mouth the water melts away and the seed chews sharp and bitter. The man knew there was no nourishment in the berries, but he chewed them patiently with a hope greater than knowledge and defying experience.

At nine o'clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge, and from sheer weariness and weakness staggered and fell. He lay for some time, without movement, on his side. Then he slipped out of the pack-straps and clumsily dragged himself into a sitting posture. It was not yet dark, and in the lingering twilight he groped about among the rocks for shreds of dry moss. When he had gathered a heap he built a fire, —a smouldering, smudgy fire,—and put a tin pot of water on to boil.

He unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did was to count his matches. There were sixty-seven. He counted them three times to make sure. He divided them into several portions, wrapping them in oil paper, disposing of one bunch in his empty tobacco pouch, of another bunch in the inside band of his battered hat, of a third bunch under his shirt on the chest. This accomplished, a panic came upon him, and he unwrapped them all and counted them again. There were still sixty-seven.

He dried his wet foot-gear by the fire. The moccasins were in soggy shreds. The blanket socks were worn through in places, and his feet were raw and bleeding. His ankle was throbbing, and he gave it an examination. It had swollen to the size of his knee. He tore a long strip from one of his two blankets and bound the ankle tightly. He tore other strips and bound them about his feet to serve for both moccasins and socks. Then he drank the pot of water, steaming hot, wound his watch, and crawled between his blankets.

He slept like a dead man. The brief darkness around midnight came and went. The sun arose in the northeast-at least the day dawned in that quarter, for the sun was hidden by gray clouds.

At six o'clock he awoke, quietly lying on his back. He gazed straight up into the gray sky and knew that he was hungry. As he rolled over on his elbow he was startled by a loud snort, and saw a bull caribou regarding him with alert curiosity. The animal was not more than fifty feet away, and instantly into the man's mind leaped the vision and the savor of a caribou steak sizzling and frying over a fire. Mechanically he reached for the empty gun, drew a bead, and pulled the trigger. The bull snorted and leaped away, his hoofs rattling and clattering as he fled across the ledges.

The man cursed and flung the empty gun from him. He groaned aloud as he started to drag himself to his feet. It was a slow and arduous task. His joints were like rusty hinges. They worked harshly in their sockets, with much friction, and each bending or unbending was accomplished only through a sheer exertion of will. When he finally gained his feet, another minute or so was consumed in straightening up, so that he could stand erect as a man should stand.

He crawled up a small knoll and surveyed the prospect. There were no trees, no bushes, nothing but a gray sea of moss scarcely diversified by gray rocks, gray lakelets, and gray streamlets. The sky was gray. There was no sun nor hint of sun. He had no idea of north,and he had forgotten the way he had come to this spot the night before. But he was not lost. He knew that. Soon he would come to the land of the little sticks. He felt that it lay off to the left somewhere, not far-possibly just over the next low hill.

He went back to put his pack into shape for travelling. He assured himself of the existence of his three separate parcels of matches, though he did not stop to count them. But he did linger, debating, over a squat moose-hide sack. It was not large. He could hide it under his two hands. He knew that it weighed fifteen pounds, —as much as all the rest of the pack, —and it worried him. He finally set it to one side and proceeded to roll the pack. He paused to gaze at the squat moose-hide sack. He picked it up hastily with a defiant glance about him, as though the desolation were trying to rob him of it; and when he rose to his feet to stagger on into the day, it was included in the pack on his back.

He bore away to the left, stopping now and again to eat muskeg berries. His ankle had stiffened, his limp was more pronounced, but the pain of it was as nothing compared with the pain of his stomach. The hunger pangs were sharp. They gnawed and gnawed until he could not keep his mind steady on the course he must pursue to gain the land of little sticks. The muskeg berries did not allay this gnawing, while they made his tongue and the roof of his mouth sore with their irritating bite.

He came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose on whirring wings from the ledges and muskegs. Ker-ker-ker was the cry they made. He threw stones at them, but could not hit them. He placed his pack on the ground and stalked them as a cat stalks a sparrow. The sharp rocks cut through his pants’legs till his knees left a trail of blood; but the hurt was lost in the hurt of his hunger. He squirmed over the wet moss, saturating his clothes and chilling his body; but he was not aware of it, so great was his fever for food. And always the ptarmigan rose, whirring, before him, till their ker-ker-ker became a mock to him, and he cursed them and cried aloud at them with 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 rocky nook. He made a clutch as startled as was the rise of the ptarmigan, and there remained in his hand three tail-feathers. As he watched its flight he hated it, as though it had done him some terrible wrong. Then he returned and shouldered his pack.

As the day wore along he came into valleys or swales where game was more plentiful. A band of caribou passed by, twenty and odd animals, tantalizingly within rifle range. He felt a wild desire to run after them, a certitude that he could run them down. A black fox came toward him, carrying a ptarmigan in his mouth. The man shouted. It was a fearful cry, but the fox, leaping away in fright, did not drop the ptarmigan.

Late in the afternoon he followed a stream, milky with lime, which ran through sparse patches of rush-grass. Grasping these rushes firmly near the root, he pulled up what resembled a young onion-sprout no larger than a shingle-nail. It was tender, and his teeth sank into it with a crunch that promised deliciously of food. But its fibers were tough. It was composed of stringy filaments saturated with water, like the berries, and devoid of nourishment. He threw off his pack and went into the rush-grass on hands and knees, crunching and munching, like some bovine creature.

He was very weary and often wished to rest-to lie down and sleep; but he was continually driven on-not so much by his desire to gain the land of little sticks as by his hunger. He searched little ponds for frogs and dug up the earth with his nails for worms, though he knew in spite that neither frogs nor worms existed so far north.

He looked into every pool of water vainly, until, as the long twilight came on, he discovered a solitary fish, the size of a minnow, in such a pool. He plunged his arm in up to the shoulder, but it eluded him. He reached for it with both 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 the fish, and he was compelled to wait until the sediment had settled.

The pursuit was renewed, till the water was again muddied. But he could not wait. He unstrapped the tin bucket and began to bale the pool. He baled wildly at first, splashing himself and flinging the water so short a distance that it ran back into the pool. He worked more carefully, striving to be cool, though his heart was pounding against his chest and his hands were trembling. At the end of half an hour the pool was nearly dry. Not a cupful of water remained. And there was no fish. He found a hidden crevice among the stones through which it had escaped to the adjoining and larger pool-a pool which he could not empty in a night and a day. Had he known of the crevice, he could have closed it with a rock at the beginning and the fish would have been his.

Thus he thought, and crumpled up and sank down upon the wet earth. At first he cried softly to himself, then he cried loudly to the pitiless desolation that ringed him around; and for a long time after he was shaken by great dry sobs.

He built a fire and warmed himself by drinking quarts of hot water, and made camp on a rocky ledge in the same fashion he had the night before. The last thing he did was to see that his matches were dry and to wind his watch. The blankets were wet and clammy. His ankle pulsed with pain. But he knew only that he was hungry, and through his restless sleep he dreamed of feasts and banquets and of food served and spread in all imaginable ways.

He awoke chilled and sick. There was no sun. The gray of earth and sky had become deeper, more profound. A raw wind was blowing, and the first flurries of snow were whitening the hilltops. The air about him thickened and grew white while he made a fire and boiled more water. It was wet snow, half rain, and the flakes were large and soggy. At first they melted as soon as they came in contact with 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 and stumble onward, he knew not where. He was not concerned with the land of little sticks, nor with Bill and the cache under the upturned canoe by the river Dease. He was mastered by the verb“to eat.”He was hunger-mad. He took no heed of the course he pursued, so long as that course led him through the swale bottoms. He felt his way through the wet snow to the watery muskeg berries, and went by feel as he pulled up the rush-grass by the roots. But it was tasteless stuff and did not satisfy. He found a weed that tasted sour and he ate all he could find of it, which was not much, for it was a creeping growth, easily hidden under the several inches of snow.

He had no fire that night, nor hot water, and crawled under his blanket to sleep the broken hunger-sleep. The snow turned into a cold rain. He awakened many times to feel it falling on his upturned face. Day came-a gray day and no sun. It had ceased raining. The keenness of his hunger had departed. Sensibility, as far as concerned the yearning for food, had been exhausted. There was a dull, heavy ache in his stomach, but it did not bother him so much. He was more rational, and once more he was chiefly interested in the land of little sticks and the cache by the river Dease.

He ripped the remnant of one of his blankets into strips and bound his bleeding feet. Also, he recinched the injured ankle and prepared himself for a day of travel. When he came to his pack, he paused long over the squat moose-hide sack, but in the end it went with him.

The snow had melted under the rain, and only the hilltops showed white. The sun came out, and he succeeded in locating the points of the compass, though he knew now that he was lost. Perhaps, in his previous days’wanderings, he had edged away too far to the left. He now bore off to the right to counteract the possible deviation from his true course.

Though the hunger pangs were no longer so exquisite, he realized that he was weak. He was compelled to pause for frequent rests, when he attacked the muskeg berries and rush-grass patches. His tongue felt dry and large, as though covered with a fine hairy growth, and it tasted bitter in his mouth. His heart gave him a great deal of trouble. When he had travelled a few minutes it would begin a remorseless thump, thump, thump, and then leap up and away in a painful flutter of beats that choked him and made him go faint and dizzy.

In the middle of the day he found two minnows in a large pool. It was impossible to bale it, but he was calmer now and managed to catch them in his tin bucket. They were no longer than his little finger, but he was not particularly hungry. The dull ache in his stomach had been growing duller and fainter. It seemed almost that his stomach was dozing. He ate the fish raw, masticating with painstaking care, for the eating was an act of pure reason. While he had no desire to eat, he knew that he must eat to live.

In the evening he caught three more minnows, eating two and saving the third for breakfast. The sun had dried stray shreds of moss, and he was able to warm himself with hot water. He had not covered more than ten miles that day; and the next day, travelling whenever his heart permitted him, he covered no more than five miles. But his stomach did not give him the slightest uneasiness. It had gone to sleep. He was in a strange country, too, and the caribou were growing more plentiful, also the wolves. Often their yelps drifted across the desolation, and once he saw three of them slinking away before his path.

Another night; and in the morning, being more rational, he untied the leather string that fastened the squat moose-hide sack. From its open mouth poured a yellow stream of coarse gold-dust and nuggets. He roughly divided the gold in halves, caching one half on a prominent ledge, wrapped in a piece of blanket, and returning the other half to the sack. He also began to use strips of the one remaining blanket for his feet. He still clung to his gun, for there were cartridges in that cache by the river Dease. This was a day of fog, and this day hunger awoke in him again. He was very weak and was afflicted with a giddiness which at times blinded him. It was no uncommon thing now for him to stumble and fall;and stumbling once, he fell squarely into a ptarmigan nest. There were four newly hatched chicks, a day old-little specks of pulsating life no more than a mouthful; and he ate them ravenously, thrusting them alive into his mouth and crunching them like egg-shells between his teeth. The mother ptarmigan beat about him with great outcry. He used his gun as a club with which to knock her over, but she dodged out of reach. He threw stones at her and with one chance shot broke a wing. Then she fluttered away, running, trailing the broken wing, with him in pursuit.

The little chicks had no more than whetted his appetite. He hopped and bobbed clumsily along on his injured ankle, throwing stones and screaming hoarsely at times; at other times hopping and bobbing silently along, picking himself up grimly and patiently when he fell, or rubbing his eyes with his hand when the giddiness threatened to overpower him.

The chase led him across swampy ground in the bottom of the valley, and he came upon footprints in the soggy moss. They were not his own-he could see that. They must be Bill's. But he could not stop, for the mother ptarmigan was running on. He would catch her first, then he would return and investigate.

He exhausted the mother ptarmigan; but he exhausted himself. She lay panting on her side. He lay panting on his side, a dozen feet away, unable to crawl to her. And as he recovered she recovered, fluttering out of reach as his hungry hand went out to her. The chase was resumed. Night settled down and she escaped. He stumbled from weakness and pitched head foremost on his face, cutting his cheek, his pack upon his back. He did not move for a long while; then he rolled over on his side, wound his watch, and lay there until morning.

Another day of fog. Half of his last blanket had gone into foot-wrappings. He failed to pick up Bill's trail. It did not matter. His hunger was driving him too compellingly-only-only he wondered if Bill, too, were lost. By midday the irk of his pack became too oppressive. Again he divided the gold, this time merely spilling half of it on the ground. In the afternoon he threw the rest of it away, there remaining to him only the half-blanket, the tin bucket, and the rifle.

An hallucination began to trouble him. He felt confident that one cartridge remained to him. It was in the chamber of the rifle and he had overlooked it. On the other hand, he knew all the time that the chamber was empty. But the hallucination persisted. He fought it off for hours, then threw his rifle open and was confronted with emptiness. The disappointment was as bitter as though he had really expected to find the cartridge.

He plodded on for half an hour, when the hallucination arose again. Again he fought it, and still it persisted, till for very relief he opened his rifle to unconvince himself. At times his mind wandered farther afield, and he plodded on, a mere automaton, strange conceits and whimsicalities gnawing at his brain like worms. But these excursions out of the real were of brief duration, for ever the pangs of the hunger-bite called him back. He was jerked back abruptly once from such an excursion by a sight that caused him nearly to faint. He reeled and swayed, doddering like a drunken man to keep from falling. Before him stood a horse. A horse! He could not believe his eyes. A thick mist was in them, intershot with sparkling points of light. He rubbed his eyes savagely to clear his vision, and beheld, not a horse, but a great brown bear. The animal was studying him with bellicose curiosity.

The man had brought his gun halfway to his shoulder before he realized. He lowered it and drew his hunting-knife from its beaded sheath at his hip. Before him was meat and life. He ran his thumb along the edge of his knife. It was sharp. The point was sharp. He would fling himself upon the bear and kill it. But his heart began its warning thump, thump, thump. Then followed the wild upward leap and tattoo of flutters, the pressing as of an iron band about his forehead, the creeping of the dizziness into his brain.

His desperate courage was evicted by a great surge of fear. In his weakness, what if the animal attacked him? He drew himself up to his most imposing stature, gripping the knife and staring hard at the bear. The bear advanced clumsily a couple of steps, reared up, and gave vent to a tentative growl. If the man ran, he would run after him; but the man did not run. He was animated now with the courage of fear. He, too, growled, savagely, terribly, voicing the fear that is to life germane and that lies twisted about life's deepest roots.

The bear edged away to one side, growling menacingly, himself appalled by this mysterious creature that appeared upright and unafraid. But the man did not move. He stood like a statue till the danger was past, when he yielded to a fit of trembling and sank down into the wet moss.

He pulled himself together and went on, afraid now in a new way. It was not the fear that he should die passively from lack of food, but that he should be destroyed violently before starvation had exhausted the last particle of the endeavor in him that made toward surviving. There were the wolves. Back and forth across the desolation drifted their howls, weaving the very air into a fabric of menace that was so tangible that he found himself, arms in the air, pressing it back from him as it might be the walls of a wind-blown tent.

Now and again the wolves, in packs of two and three, crossed his path. But they sheered clear of him. They were not in sufficient numbers, and besides they were hunting the caribou, which did not battle, while this strange creature that walked erect might scratch and bite.

In the late afternoon he came upon scattered bones where the wolves had made a kill. The debris had been a caribou calf an hour before, squawking and running and very much alive. He contemplated the bones, clean-picked and polished, pink with the cell-life in them which had not yet died. Could it possibly be that he might be that ere the day was done! Such was life, eh? A vain and fleeting thing. It was only life that pained. There was no hurt in death. To die was to sleep. It meant cessation, rest. Then why was he not content to die?

But he did not moralize long. He was squatting in the moss, a bone in his mouth, sucking at the shreds of life that still dyed it faintly pink. The sweet meaty taste, thin and elusive almost as a memory, maddened him. He closed his jaws on the bones and crunched. Sometimes it was the bone that broke, sometimes his teeth. Then he crushed the bones between rocks, pounded them to a pulp, and swallowed them. He pounded his fingers, too, in his haste, and yet found a moment in which to feel surprise at the fact that his fingers did not hurt much when caught under the descending rock.

Came frightful days of snow and rain. He did not know when he made camp, when he broke camp. He travelled in the night as much as in the day. He rested wherever he fell, crawled on whenever the dying life in him flickered up and burned less dimly. He, as a man, no longer strove. It was the life in him, unwilling to die, that drove him on. He did not suffer. His nerves had become blunted, numb, while his mind was filled with weird visions and delicious dreams.

But ever he sucked and chewed on the crushed bones of the caribou calf, the least remnants of which he had gathered up and carried with him. He crossed no more hills or divides, but automatically followed a large stream which flowed through a wide and shallow valley. He did not see this stream nor this valley. He saw nothing save visions. Soul and body walked or crawled side by side, yet apart, so slender was the thread that bound them.

He awoke in his right mind, lying on his back on a rocky ledge. The sun was shining bright and warm. Afar off he heard the squawking of caribou calves. He was aware of vague memories of rain and wind and snow, but whether he had been beaten by the storm for two days or two weeks he did not know.

For some time he lay without movement, the genial sunshine pouring upon him and saturating his miserable body with its warmth. A fine day, he thought. Perhaps he could manage to locate himself. By a painful effort he rolled over on his side. Below him flowed a wide and sluggish river. Its unfamiliarity puzzled him. Slowly he followed it with his eyes, winding in wide sweeps among the bleak, bare hills, bleaker and barer and lower-lying than any hills he had yet encountered. Slowly, deliberately, without excitement or more than the most casual interest, he followed the course of the strange stream toward the sky-line and saw it emptying into a bright and shining sea. He was still unexcited. Most unusual, he thought, a vision or a mirage-more likely a vision, a trick of his disordered mind. He was confirmed in this by sight of a ship lying at anchor in the midst of the shining sea. He closed his eyes for a while, then opened them. Strange how the vision persisted! Yet not strange. He knew there were no seas or ships in the heart of the barren lands, just as he had known there was no cartridge in the empty rifle.

He heard a snuffle behind him-a half-choking gasp or cough. Very slowly, because of his exceeding weakness and stiffness, he rolled over on his other side. He could see nothing near at hand, but he waited patiently. Again came the snuffle and cough, and outlined between two jagged rocks not a score of feet away he made out the gray head of a wolf. The sharp ears were not pricked so sharply as he had seen them on other wolves;the eyes were bleared and bloodshot, the head seemed to droop limply and forlornly. The animal blinked continually in the sunshine. It seemed sick. As he looked it snuffled and coughed again.

This, at least, was real, he thought, and turned on the other side so that he might see the reality of the world which had been veiled from him before by the vision. But the sea still shone in the distance and the ship was plainly discernible. Was it reality, after all? He closed his eyes for a long while and thought, and then it came to him. He had been making north by east, away from the Dease Divide and into the Coppermine Valley. This wide and sluggish river was the Coppermine. That shining sea was the Arctic Ocean. That ship was a whaler, strayed east, far east, from the mouth of the Mackenzie, and it was lying at anchor in Coronation Gulf. He remembered the Hudson Bay Company chart he had seen long ago, and it was all clear and reasonable to him.

He sat up and turned his attention to immediate affairs. He had worn through the blanket-wrappings, and his feet were shapeless lumps of raw meat. His last blanket was gone. Rifle and knife were both missing. He had lost his hat somewhere, with the bunch of matches in the band, but the matches against his chest were safe and dry inside the tobacco pouch and oil paper. He looked at his watch. It marked eleven o'clock and was still running. Evidently he had kept it wound.

He was calm and collected. Though extremely weak, he had no sensation of pain. He was not hungry. The thought of food was not even pleasant to him, and whatever he did was done by his reason alone. He ripped off his pants’legs to the knees and bound them about his feet. Somehow he had succeeded in retaining the tin bucket. He would have some hot water before he began what he foresaw was to be a terrible journey to the ship.

His movements were slow. He shook as with a palsy. When he started to collect dry moss, he found he could not rise to his feet. He tried again and again, then contented himself with crawling about on hands and knees. Once he crawled near to the sick wolf. The animal dragged itself reluctantly out of his way, licking its chops with a tongue which seemed hardly to have the strength to curl. The man noticed that the tongue was not the customary healthy red. It was a yellowish brown and seemed coated with a rough and half-dry mucus.

After he had drunk a quart of hot water the man found he was able to stand, and even to walk as well as a dying man might be supposed to walk. Every minute or so he was compelled to rest. His steps were feeble and uncertain, just as the wolf's that trailed him were feeble and uncertain; and that night, when the shining sea was blotted out by blackness, he knew he was nearer to it by no more than four miles.

Throughout the night he heard the cough of the sick wolf, and now and then the squawking of the caribou calves. There was life all around him, but it was strong life, very much alive and well, and he knew the sick wolf clung to the sick man's trail in the hope that the man would die first. In the morning, on opening his eyes, he beheld it regarding him with a wistful and hungry stare. It stood crouched, with tail between its legs, like a miserable and woe-begone dog. It shivered in the chill morning wind, and grinned dispiritedly when the man spoke to it in a voice that achieved no more than a hoarse whisper.

The sun rose brightly, and all morning the man tottered and fell toward the ship on the shining sea. The weather was perfect. It was the brief Indian Summer of the high latitudes. It might last a week. To-morrow or next day it might be gone.

In the afternoon the man came upon a trail. It was of another man, who did not walk,but who dragged himself on all fours. The man thought it might be Bill, but he thought in a dull, uninterested way. He had no curiosity. In fact, sensation and emotion had left him. He was no longer susceptible to pain. Stomach and nerves had gone to sleep. Yet the life that was in him drove him on. He was very weary, but it refused to die. It was because it refused to die that he still ate muskeg berries and minnows, drank his hot water, and kept a wary eye on the sick wolf.

He followed the trail of the other man who dragged himself along, and soon came to the end of it-a few fresh-picked bones where the soggy moss was marked by the foot-pads of many wolves. He saw a squat moose-hide sack, mate to his own, which had been torn by sharp teeth. He picked it up, though its weight was almost too much for his feeble fingers. Bill had carried it to the last. Ha! ha! He would have the laugh on Bill. He would survive and carry it to the ship in the shining sea. His mirth was hoarse and ghastly, like a raven's croak, and the sick wolf joined him, howling lugubriously. The man ceased suddenly. How could he have the laugh on Bill if that were Bill; if those bones, so pinky-white and clean, were Bill?

He turned away. Well, Bill had deserted him; but he would not take the gold, nor would he suck Bill's bones. Bill would have, though, had it been the other way around, he mused as he staggered on. He came to a pool of water. Stooping over in quest of minnows, he jerked his head back as though he had been stung. He had caught sight of his reflected face. So horrible was it that sensibility awoke long enough to be shocked. There were three minnows in the pool, which was too large to drain; and after several ineffectual attempts to catch them in the tin bucket he forbore. He was afraid, because of his great weakness, that he might fall in and drown. It was for this reason that he did not trust himself to the river astride one of the many drift-logs which lined its sand-spits.

That day he decreased the distance between him and the ship by three miles; the next day by two-for he was crawling now as Bill had crawled; and the end of the fifth day found the ship still seven miles away and him unable to make even a mile a day. Still the Indian Summer held on, and he continued to crawl and faint, turn and turn about; and ever the sick wolf coughed and wheezed at his heels. His knees had become raw meat like his feet, and though he padded them with the shirt from his back it was a red track he left behind him on the moss and stones. Once, glancing back, he saw the wolf licking hungrily his bleeding trail, and he saw sharply what his own end might be-unless-unless he could get the wolf. Then began as grim a tragedy of existence as was ever played-a sick man that crawled, a sick wolf that limped, two creatures dragging their dying carcasses across the desolation and hunting each other's lives.

Had it been a well wolf, it would not have mattered so much to the man; but the thought of going to feed the maw of that loathsome and all but dead thing was repugnant to him. He was finicky. His mind had begun to wander again, and to be perplexed by hallucinations, while his lucid intervals grew rarer and shorter.

He was awakened once from a faint by a wheeze close in his ear. The wolf leaped lamely back, losing its footing and falling in its weakness. It was ludicrous, but he was not amused. Nor was he even afraid. He was too far gone for that. But his mind was for the moment clear, and he lay and considered. The ship was no more than four miles away. He could see it quite distinctly when he rubbed the mists out of his eyes, and he could see the white sail of a small boat cutting the water of the shining sea. But he could never crawl those four miles. He knew that, and was very calm in the knowledge. He knew that he could not crawl half a mile. And yet he wanted to live. It was unreasonable that he should die after all he had undergone. Fate asked too much of him. And, dying, he declined to die.It was stark madness, perhaps, but in the very grip of Death he defied Death and refused to die.

He closed his eyes and composed himself with infinite precaution. He steeled himself to keep above the suffocating languor that lapped like a rising tide through all the wells of his being. It was very like a sea, this deadly languor, that rose and rose and drowned his consciousness bit by bit. Sometimes he was all but submerged, swimming through oblivion with a faltering stroke; and again, by some strange alchemy of soul, he would find another shred of will and strike out more strongly.

Without movement he lay on his back, and he could hear, slowly drawing near and nearer, the wheezing intake and output of the sick wolf's breath. It drew closer, ever closer, through an infinitude of time, and he did not move. It was at his ear. The harsh dry tongue grated like sandpaper against his cheek. His hands shot out-or at least he willed them to shoot out. The fingers were curved like talons, but they closed on empty air. Swiftness and certitude require strength, and the man had not this strength.

The patience of the wolf was terrible. The man's patience was no less terrible. For half a day he lay motionless, fighting off unconsciousness and waiting for the thing that was to feed upon him and upon which he wished to feed. Sometimes the languid sea rose over him and he dreamed long dreams; but ever through it all, waking and dreaming, he waited for the wheezing breath and the harsh caress of the tongue.

He did not hear the breath, and he slipped slowly from some dream to the feel of the tongue along his hand. He waited. The fangs pressed softly; the pressure increased; the wolf was exerting its last strength in an effort to sink teeth in the food for which it had waited so long. But the man had waited long, and the lacerated hand closed on the jaw.Slowly, while the wolf struggled feebly and the hand clutched feebly, the other hand crept across to a grip. Five minutes later the whole weight of the man's body was on top of the wolf. The hands had not sufficient strength to choke the wolf, but the face of the man was pressed close to the throat of the wolf and the mouth of the man was full of hair. At the end of half an hour the man was aware of a warm trickle in his throat. It was not pleasant. It was like molten lead being forced into his stomach, and it was forced by his will alone. Later the man rolled over on his back and slept.

There were some members of a scientific expedition on the whale-ship Bedford. From the deck they remarked a strange object on the shore. It was moving down the beach toward the water. They were unable to classify it, and, being scientific men, they climbed into the whale-boat alongside and went ashore to see. And they saw something that was alive but which could hardly be called a man. It was blind, unconscious. It squirmed along the ground like some monstrous worm. Most of its efforts were ineffectual, but it was persistent, and it writhed and twisted and went ahead perhaps a score of feet an hour.

Three weeks afterward the man lay in a bunk on the whale-ship Bedford, and with tears streaming down his wasted cheeks told who he was and what he had undergone. He also babbled incoherently of his mother, of sunny Southern California, and a home among the orange groves and flowers.

The days were not many after that when he sat at table with the scientific men and ship's officers. He gloated over the spectacle of so much food, watching it anxiously as it went into the mouths of others. With the disappearance of each mouthful an expression of deep regret came into his eyes. He was quite sane, yet he hated those men at meal-time. He was haunted by a fear that the food would not last. He inquired of the cook, the cabin-boy, the captain, concerning the food stores. They reassured him countless times; but he could not believe them, and pried cunningly about the lazarette to see with his own eyes.

It was noticed that the man was getting fat. He grew stouter with each day. The scientific men shook their heads and theorized. They limited the man at his meals, but still his girth increased and he swelled prodigiously under his shirt.

The sailors grinned. They knew. And when the scientific men set a watch on the man, they knew too. They saw him slouch for'ard after breakfast, and, like a mendicant, with outstretched palm, accost a sailor. The sailor grinned and passed him a fragment of sea biscuit. He clutched it avariciously, looked at it as a miser looks at gold, and thrust it into his shirt bosom. Similar were the donations from other grinning sailors. The scientific men were discreet. They let him alone. But they privily examined his bunk. It was lined with hardtack; the mattress was stuffed with hardtack; every nook and cranny was filled with hardtack. Yet he was sane. He was taking precautions against another possible famine-that was all. He would recover from it, the scientific men said; and he did, ere the Bedford's anchor rumbled down in San Francisco Bay.

萬物唯此留，

生活顛簸走；

骰子失金色，

勝局多會有。

他們倆腳步蹣跚，吃力地走下河岸，有一次，那個走在前面的人還在亂石間失足搖晃了一下。他們疲憊無力，因為長期忍受苦難，臉上帶著愁苦憔悴的表情。他們肩上捆著毛毯包裹的沉重行囊。那條勒在額頭上的皮帶幫著吊住了這些行囊。每人有一支步槍。他們都以彎腰的姿勢走路，肩膀前傾，頭更向前伸，眼睛俯視著地面。

“那些藏在地窖里的子彈，我們要是帶兩三發(fā)就好了。”走在后面的那個人說。

他的聲音枯燥乏味，沉悶呆板。他說話時沒有激情；前面那人一瘸一拐地走進了流過巖石、激起一片泡沫的白茫茫的小溪，沒有回答。

后面那個人緊隨其后。盡管河水冰冷，但他們都沒有脫掉鞋襪——冷得他們腳踝生疼，兩腳發(fā)木。到了河水能沖擊到他們膝蓋的一些地方，兩人都搖晃了一下，才站穩(wěn)腳跟。

那個跟在后面的人在一塊光滑的大鵝卵石上滑了一下，差點兒摔倒，但他猛一用力，才又站穩(wěn)了腳跟，同時發(fā)出了一聲痛苦的尖叫。他好像頭昏眼花，身體搖晃時伸出一只空閑的手，似乎在空中尋找支撐物。站穩(wěn)之后，他又向前走去，但又搖晃了一下，差點兒摔倒。于是，他便站住不動，望著另一個從不回頭的人。

他一動不動，站了足有一分鐘，仿佛是在獨自思考。接著，他大聲叫道：

“喂，比爾，我扭傷了腳踝。”

比爾搖搖晃晃，繼續(xù)趟著白茫茫的河水，沒有回頭。后面那個人望著他走，盡管臉上依舊沒有表情，但他的眼神里卻流露出一頭受傷的鹿一樣的神情。

前面一個人一瘸一拐地爬上遠處的河岸，徑直前行，沒有回頭。小溪里的那個人目不轉(zhuǎn)睛地望著他，嘴唇微微顫抖，所以他嘴唇上下蓬亂的棕色胡子明顯在抖動，他甚至不知不覺地伸出舌頭來潤了潤嘴唇。

“比爾！”他大聲喊道。這是一個堅強的人在危難中的大聲懇求，但比爾沒有回頭。那個人望著他，只見他動作古怪，蹣跚而行，東倒西歪，吭吭哧哧，向前爬上緩坡，朝矮山上柔和的空中輪廓線走去。他望著比爾一直翻過山頭，不見了蹤影。于是，他掉轉(zhuǎn)目光，慢慢地觀察著比爾走后現(xiàn)在留給他的周圍世界。

靠近地平線處，太陽微暗，正在悶燒，幾乎被那些飄忽不定的薄霧和蒸氣遮掩，給人一種密密麻麻、沒有輪廓、沒有外形的印象。這個人單腿站立休息，掏出手表。已經(jīng)四點鐘了，因為這是接近七月底或八月初的季節(jié)——他不清楚一兩周內(nèi)的確切日期——他知道太陽大致在西北方。他望著南面，知道那些荒涼小山后面的某個地方就是大熊湖[1]；同時，他也知道，在那個方向，北極圈[2]的禁區(qū)界線穿越了加拿大荒野。他站立的這條小溪是科珀曼河[3]的一條支流，科珀曼河向北流去，匯入加冕灣和北冰洋。他從來沒有到過那里，但他曾在哈得孫灣公司的地圖上見過一次。

他的目光又環(huán)顧了一下周圍的世界。這是一片叫人看了發(fā)愁的景象。到處都是模糊的地平線。那些小山都非常低矮。沒有樹木，沒有灌木，沒有青草——只有一片遼闊可怕的荒野，他的眼里即刻露出了恐懼的神色。

“比爾！”他低聲連喊了兩次，“比爾！”

他畏縮在白茫茫的河水中央，仿佛這茫茫荒野正在用排山倒海之勢向他壓來，擺出殘忍、得意的威風(fēng)來壓垮他。他開始像發(fā)瘧疾一樣顫抖，手里的槍撲通落進了水里，這才驚醒了他。他跟恐懼斗爭，打起精神，在水里摸索，又找到了槍。他把行囊向左肩移了一下，以便減輕扭傷的腳踝的一部分重量。隨后，他就慢慢地、小心地向河岸繼續(xù)走去，疼得他閃閃縮縮。

他沒有停步，不顧疼痛，匆匆忙忙，發(fā)瘋一般拼命爬上斜坡，爬上伙伴消失的那個山頭——比起那個一瘸一拐、顛簸前進的伙伴，他的樣子更滑稽可笑。但是，到了山頭，他看到一個了無生機的淺谷。他又和恐懼斗爭，戰(zhàn)勝它，又把行囊向左肩移了移，步履蹣跚，走下山坡。

谷底浸透了水，厚厚的苔蘚像海綿一樣，緊貼在水面上。他每走一步，水就從他的腳下噴濺出來，他每一次提腳，濕苔蘚都會吸住他的腳不肯放松，最終發(fā)出呼哧呼哧的聲音。他小心翼翼，從一塊沼地走到另一塊沼地，然后順著比爾的腳印，穿過一堆一堆的，像突出在這片苔蘚海里的小島一樣的巖礁。

盡管孤身一人，但他沒有迷路。他知道再向前，他就會走到一個小湖旁邊，那里有枯死的、小小的、極細的云杉。小湖名叫提青尼其利，意為“小棍地”，處在一片岬地。而且，還有一條小溪流入那個湖里，溪水不是白茫茫的。那條小溪上有燈芯草——這一點他記得一清二楚——但沒有樹木，他可以順著這條小溪，一直走到溪流盡頭的分水嶺。他會翻過這道分水嶺，走到另一條向西流去的小溪的源頭。他可以順著水流，走到它注入狄斯河的地方。到了那里，他會在一條翻了的獨木舟下面找到一個密藏處，上面堆有許多石頭。這個密藏處里有他那支空槍需要的彈藥，還有釣鉤、釣線和一張小漁網(wǎng)——都是打獵捕食的有用工具。他也會找到面粉——不多——還有一塊熏肉和一些蠶豆。

比爾會在那里等他，然后他們會順著狄斯河向南，劃著小船到達大熊湖。接著，他們會向南穿過這條湖，一直向南，直至到達麥肯齊河[4]。到了那里，他們還要向南，繼續(xù)南行。此時，冬天就怎么也追不上他們了，而且那些湍流結(jié)冰，天氣變得干冷。他們一路向南走到哈得孫灣公司一個暖和的貿(mào)易站，那里的樹木長得高大茂盛，吃的東西也很多。

這個人掙扎向前時，就是這樣想的。不過，像他努力拼著體力一樣，他的頭腦也在同樣苦苦思索，盡力想著比爾沒有拋棄他，想著比爾肯定會在密藏處等他。他不得不這樣想，否則他就用不著這樣努力，早就會躺下死了。當像暗淡的圓球一樣的太陽慢慢沉入西北方時，他多次考慮著在冬天降臨之前他和比爾南逃的每一寸路。他一遍又一遍地念想著密藏處和哈得孫灣公司貿(mào)易站的食物。他已經(jīng)兩天沒吃東西了；他沒有吃到他想吃的東西的時間更長。他常常彎下腰，摘一些淺色的沼地漿果，把它們放進嘴里嚼嚼，咽下去。沼地漿果是包裹在一點漿水里的小粒種子。放進嘴里，就化了，種子嚼起來酸辣苦澀。這個人知道這種漿果沒有營養(yǎng)，但他仍懷著希望耐心地嚼著，不顧及理智和常識。

走到九點鐘，他在一塊巖礁上絆了一下，因為極度疲憊和虛弱，他踉蹌了一下摔倒在地。他側(cè)躺了一會兒，沒有動彈。隨后，他脫下綁行囊的皮帶，笨拙地掙扎著坐起來。天還沒有黑，借著盤桓的暮色，他在亂石中四處摸索，想找到幾片干苔蘚。他收集一堆后，就生起了火——一堆悶燒冒煙的火——而且在上面放了一白鐵罐子水去燒。

打開行囊之后，他做的第一件事就是清點火柴。有六十七根。為了確定，他數(shù)了三遍，把它們分成幾束，用油紙包起來，一束放進他的空煙草袋，另一束放進他的破帽的內(nèi)圈，第三束放進貼胸的襯衫。做完后，一陣恐慌向他襲來。于是，他把它們統(tǒng)統(tǒng)拿出來打開，又數(shù)了一遍。還是六十七根。

他在火邊烘著潮濕的鞋襪。鹿皮鞋浸水，成了碎片。氈襪多處磨破，兩只腳磨破了皮，都在流血。一只腳踝血管脹得直跳，他仔細檢查了一下。只見它已經(jīng)腫得跟膝蓋一樣粗了。他帶有兩條毯子，他從其中一條撕下一長綹，緊緊捆住那只腳踝，又撕下幾綹，裹在腳上，代替鹿皮鞋和襪子，隨后喝下那罐熱氣騰騰的開水，給手表上好發(fā)條，爬進了兩條毯子當中。

他睡得像死人一樣。午夜前后的短暫黑暗來而又去。太陽從東北方升起——至少那個方向出現(xiàn)了曙光，因為太陽被烏云遮住了。

六點鐘，他醒來，靜靜地仰躺在那里，仰望灰蒙蒙的天空，知道自己餓了。當他支起胳膊肘翻過身時，一陣響亮的呼哧聲把他嚇了一跳，只見一頭公鹿正在用機警好奇的神情凝視著他。這只動物離他不過有五十英尺。這個人的腦海里馬上出現(xiàn)了鹿肉排放在一堆火上烤得咝咝響的情景。他下意識地伸手抓起那支空槍，瞄準，扣動扳機。公鹿哼了一聲，飛躍而去，逃過巖礁時，蹄子嗒嗒作響。

這個人罵了一句，扔掉空槍，一邊開始拖著身體站起來，一邊大聲呻吟。這是一項緩慢費勁的工作。他的關(guān)節(jié)像生銹的鉸鏈似的，在關(guān)節(jié)窩里因摩擦力大而發(fā)出刺耳的聲音，每次屈伸都要費盡九牛二虎之力才能做到。他終于站穩(wěn)了腳跟，又花了一分鐘左右才挺起腰，這樣他才能像一個人那樣挺直站立。

他爬上一個小圓丘，看了看眼前的風(fēng)景。沒有樹木，沒有灌木叢，只有一望無際灰蒙蒙的苔蘚，偶爾有些灰色巖石、灰色小湖和灰色小溪，算是一點點綴。天空灰蒙蒙的，沒有太陽，也沒有太陽的影子。他根本不知道哪里是北方，也忘了前一天晚上他是怎么走到這里的。但是，他沒有迷路。這他明白。不久，他就會走到那個“小棍地”，他感到它就在左邊的某個地方，距離不遠——說不定翻過下一個低矮的小山就到了。

他返回去，打好行囊，準備動身。他確信那三束分別存放的火柴還在，但他沒有停下來再數(shù)它們。不過，他的確遲疑了一下，在考慮一只短粗的鹿皮袋。袋子不大。他兩只手就可以把它蓋住。他知道它重十五磅——差不多像行囊里的其他東西一樣重——這使他發(fā)了愁。最后，他把它放在一邊，開始卷行囊。之后，他又停下來，盯著那只短粗的鹿皮袋。他趕忙提起鹿皮袋，用警覺的目光看了看四周，仿佛這片荒野要設(shè)法從他手里把它奪走似的；等到他站起來，搖搖晃晃開始一天的行程時，這只袋子仍舊裝在他背后的行囊里。

他向左邊走去，不時地停下來吃沼地漿果。那只扭傷的腳踝已經(jīng)僵直，他跛得更加明顯，但和胃痛相比，腳疼算不了什么。饑餓的陣痛非常劇烈，好像有什么西在不斷咬噬著他的胃，疼得他無法把思想集中在他抵達“小棍地”必須走的路線上。沼地漿果并沒有減輕這種陣痛，它們令人不快的味道使他的舌頭和上腭疼痛難忍。

他走到一個山谷，那里的巖雷鳥[5]從巖石和沼地呼呼振翅飛起。它們發(fā)出的是“咯——咯——咯”的叫聲。他朝它們投石子，但沒有打中。他把行囊放在地上，像貓逮麻雀一樣悄悄走過去。鋒利的巖石劃破了他的褲腿，直到膝蓋流出的血在地上留下一道血跡；而這種痛苦消失在了饑餓的痛苦之中。他爬過潮濕的苔蘚，衣服濕透了，渾身發(fā)冷；但是，他沒有意識到這一點，他想吃東西的念頭那么強烈。巖雷鳥總是在他的面前呼呼飛起，到后來，它們“咯——咯——咯”的叫聲簡直變成了對他的嘲笑。于是，他咒罵它們，伴隨著它們的叫聲對它們大聲叫喊。

有一次，他爬到了一只一定是睡著了的巖雷鳥旁邊。直到它從巖石角落迎面飛起，他才看到。他像那只飛起的巖雷鳥一樣吃驚，猛然抓了一把，手里留下了三根尾羽。他望著它飛走，心里恨恨的，好像它做了什么對不起他的錯事。隨后，他返回原地，背起了行囊。

隨著一天慢慢過去，他走進了山谷或說是沼地，那里的獵物比較多。一群馴鹿走了過去，有二十多頭，都在步槍的射程內(nèi)，讓他抓狂。他有一種想追趕它們的瘋狂欲望，他確信自己能追捕到它們。一只黑狐貍朝他走來，嘴里叼著一只巖雷鳥。這個人喊了一聲。這是一種可怕的喊聲，那只狐貍嚇得飛奔而去，卻沒有丟下巖雷鳥。

傍晚時分，他順著一條因含石灰而呈乳白色的小溪走去。這條小溪穿過一塊塊稀疏的燈芯草地。他緊緊地抓住這些燈芯草的根部，拔起一種類似洋蔥苗似的東西，這東西還沒有木瓦釘大。它很嫩，他嚼起來會發(fā)出嘎吱嘎吱的聲音，仿佛很美味。但是，它的纖維卻嚼不動。它是由浸透了水的絲狀纖維組成，像漿果一樣，完全沒有營養(yǎng)。他扔下行囊，手腳并用爬進燈芯草叢，像牛一般嘎吱嘎吱地嚼了起來。

他十分疲倦，常常想休息——躺下睡個睡覺；但是，他又不得不繼續(xù)前進——并不是因為他渴望趕到“小棍地”，多半是因為饑餓驅(qū)使。他在小水坑里找青蛙，用指甲挖土找蚯蚓，盡管他知道，在這遙遠的北方，既沒有青蛙，也沒有蚯蚓。

他徒勞地看了每個水坑；直到漫長的黃昏來臨時，他才在一個水坑里發(fā)現(xiàn)了一條孤零零、像鰷魚一樣大小的魚。他一只胳膊伸進水里，一直沒到肩膀，但它又躲開了他。他伸出雙手去捉，攪起了坑底的乳白色泥漿。他激動之中掉到了坑里，濕到了腰部。此刻，水太渾濁了，不可能看到魚，他只好等待泥漿沉淀下去。

他又逮了起來，直到水再次攪渾。但是，他等不及了。他解下身上的白鐵桶，開始舀坑里的水；起初，他拼命向外舀，濺得滿身都是水，舀出去的水距離太近，水又流回了坑里。他更加小心地舀著，盡力冷靜，盡管他的心咚咚直跳，兩手顫抖。半小時后，坑里的水差不多干了。剩下的水還不到一杯。但是，根本沒有魚；他發(fā)現(xiàn)石頭間有一條隱藏的裂縫。那條魚已經(jīng)從那里鉆進了旁邊一個相連的更大的坑里——坑里的水他一天一夜都舀不干。要是他早知道這個裂縫，他一開始就會堵上它，那條魚便歸他所有了。

這樣想著，他崩潰地倒在濕地上。起初，他輕聲哭泣，隨后便沖著團團圍住自己的無情荒野號啕大哭；后來，他又大聲號了好長時間。

他生了一堆火，喝了幾罐熱水暖和暖和身體，并像前一天夜里那樣在一塊巖礁上露宿。他最后做的一件事兒，就是看了看火柴是不是干燥，然后給手表上好了發(fā)條。毛毯又濕又冷。腳踝簌簌作痛。但是，他只知道自己肚子餓；在不安的睡眠里，他夢見了一桌桌酒席和一次次宴會，還有各種可能端放到桌上的食物。

醒來時，他既寒冷又惡心。沒有太陽。灰蒙蒙的大地和天空變得越來越濃重深沉。一陣陰風(fēng)刮來，剛開始下的雪鋪白了一座座小山頂。他周圍的空氣越來越濃，變成了白茫茫一片。此時，他生起了一堆火，又燒了開水。這是雨夾雪，雪花又大又濕。起初，一落到地上，它們就融化了，但后來越下越多，鋪滿了地面，壓滅了那堆火，把他那些當作燃料的苔蘚也給糟蹋了。

這對他是一個信號，他背起行囊，蹣跚前行，不知道去哪里。他既不關(guān)心“小棍地”，也不關(guān)心比爾和狄斯河邊那個翻了的獨木舟下面的密藏處。他被“吃”這個詞控制住了。他餓瘋了。只要這條路能帶他走出這個谷底，他根本不注意自己走的是什么路。他在濕雪里摸索前進，走到濕漉漉的沼地漿果那里，隨后一邊連根拔起燈芯草，一邊摸索前進。然而，燈芯草既沒有味道，也填不飽肚子。他又發(fā)現(xiàn)了一種酸味野草，就把能找到的都吃了下去，但找到的并不多，因為它是一種蔓生植物，容易埋藏在幾英寸厚的雪下面。

那天夜里，他既沒有生火，也沒有熱水，就鉆到毯子下面睡覺，夜里常常餓醒。雪已經(jīng)變成了冷雨。他感到雨落在他仰起的臉上，醒來了多次。天亮了——又是灰蒙蒙的一天，沒有太陽。雨已經(jīng)停了。強烈的饑餓感也消失了。就對食物的渴望而言，那種敏感性已經(jīng)耗盡了。他的胃里隱隱作痛，但這并沒有使他過分煩惱。他更加理性，又一次主要對“小棍地”和狄斯河邊的密藏處感興趣了。

他把撕剩的那條毯子扯成一綹一綹的，裹住那雙流血的腳，同時重新扎緊受傷的腳踝，為一天的行程做好準備。收拾行囊時，他對那個短粗的鹿皮袋躊躇了很久，但最后還是隨身帶上了它。

雨落雪化，只有山頭還是白色。太陽出來了，他成功地確定了羅盤的方位，盡管他知道現(xiàn)在他迷了路。在前兩天的漫游中，他也許已經(jīng)向左走得太遠了。這時，他向右邊走去，減少可能的偏差，以便走上正路。

盡管饑餓的陣痛不再那么劇烈，但他知道自己非常虛弱。他摘沼地漿果、拔燈芯草時，常常不得不停下來休息。他感覺舌頭干腫，好像上面長滿了細毛，放在嘴里很苦。心臟給他添了很多麻煩。他每走幾分鐘，心臟就開始無情地咚咚直跳，隨后上下起伏，急劇跳動，痛苦不堪，呼吸困難，頭暈?zāi)垦＃袣鉄o力。

中午時分，他在一個大水坑里發(fā)現(xiàn)了兩條鰷魚。盡管不可能把坑里的水舀干，但他現(xiàn)在比較鎮(zhèn)靜，設(shè)法用白鐵罐子撈起它們。它們還沒有他的小指長，但他并不是特別餓。胃里的隱痛越來越麻木，越來越微弱了。他的胃好像在打盹一般。他把魚生吃了下去，費力而又小心地咀嚼著，因為吃東西成了一種純理性的動作。盡管他根本沒有吃的欲望，但他知道，為了活下去，他必須吃。

傍晚時分，他又逮了三條鰷魚，吃了兩條，留下一條當作第二天的早飯。太陽已經(jīng)曬干了零散碎片的苔蘚，他能用熱水暖和身體了。這一天，他走了不到十英里；第二天，只要心臟準許，他就往前走，只走了五英里。但是，胃里卻沒有一點不安的感覺。它已經(jīng)睡著了。他也來到了一個陌生地方，馴鹿越來越多，狼也越來越多了。狼嗥聲常常飄過荒野，有一次他還看到三條狼在他前面的路上鬼鬼祟祟地溜過。

又過了一夜。第二天早晨，他更加清醒，就解開扎著短粗鹿皮袋的皮繩，從袋口倒出一股黃燦燦的粗金粉和天然塊金。他把金子大致一分為二，一半裹在一塊毯子里，藏在一塊突出的巖礁上，另一半又放回袋子。他又從那條剩余的毯子上撕下幾綹，用來裹腳。他仍舊緊握著槍，因為狄斯河邊的密藏處有子彈。這是一個霧天，他又有了饑餓感。他有氣無力，不時頭暈眼花，看不清楚。現(xiàn)在，對他來說，一絆就倒已不是什么稀奇事兒；有一次，他絆了一跤，正好摔進一個巖雷鳥窩。那里有四只剛孵出一天的小巖雷鳥——那些活蹦亂跳的小不點兒只夠他吃一口。他狼吞虎咽，把它們活活塞進嘴里，像嚼蛋殼一樣嘎吱嘎吱地吃了起來。母巖雷鳥大聲尖叫著在他的周圍撲來撲去。他以槍當棍想把它打翻，但它閃開了。他扔石子打它，碰巧打斷了它的一只翅膀。巖雷鳥拖著受傷的翅膀飛走了，他緊追不放。

那些小鳥反倒刺激了他的胃口。他拖著那只受傷的腳踝，一蹦一跳，磕磕絆絆，時而扔石子，時而粗聲尖叫，時而一瘸一拐，默默前行，摔倒后堅強而又耐心地爬起來，或者在頭暈支撐不住時用手揉揉眼睛。

追著追著他就穿過了谷底沼地，發(fā)現(xiàn)了浸水苔蘚上的一些腳印。這不是他自己的腳印——他可以看出來。這一定是比爾的。但是，他不能停步，因為母巖雷鳥正在向前跑。他要先逮住它，然后再回來查看。

他把母巖雷鳥追得筋疲力盡，但他自己也筋疲力盡了。它側(cè)躺在那里，氣喘吁吁。他也側(cè)躺在那里氣喘吁吁，距離有十幾米，但無力爬到它那里。等他恢復(fù)過來時，母巖雷鳥也恢復(fù)了過來。他那只渴望的手向它伸過去時，它撲棱棱飛到了他夠不到的地方。他又追了起來。夜幕降臨，它最終逃脫了。他身體虛弱，絆了一跤，向前栽倒，劃破了臉頰，行囊壓在背上，好一陣子一動不動，后來才翻過身，側(cè)躺在地上，給手表上好發(fā)條，一直在那里躺到第二天早晨。

又是一個霧天。他最后一條毯子已有一半做了包腳布。他沒有找到比爾的蹤跡。這不要緊。饑餓逼得他走投無路——只是——只是他不知道比爾是不是也迷了路。中午時分，煩人的行囊壓得他受不了。他又一次把金子分開，這次只把其中一半倒在地上。到了下午，他扔掉了剩下的那些，只剩下了半條毯子、白鐵罐子和那支步槍。

一種幻覺開始困擾他。他確信他還剩一顆子彈。它在槍膛里，只是他已經(jīng)忽略了。另一方面，他始終明白，槍膛是空的。但是，這種幻覺揮之不去。他幾個小時都在竭力擺脫這種幻覺。后來，他猛地打開槍，面對的是空槍膛。這種失望非常痛苦，好像他真的希望會找到那顆子彈。

他繼續(xù)跋涉了半小時，這時那種幻覺再次出現(xiàn)。他又阻止它，而它仍然存在。最后，為了自我安慰，他又打開槍膛，使自己不要相信。有時，他越想越遠，純粹成了一臺機器，一邊向前跋涉，一邊讓種種奇思怪想像蟲子一樣咬噬他的大腦。但是，這種脫離現(xiàn)實的幻想稍縱即逝，因為饑餓的痛苦總是把他喚回。有一次，他看到一個差點兒讓他昏倒的東西，突然從這種幻想中驚醒。他像酒鬼似的晃動了幾下，以免跌倒。他面前站著一匹馬。一匹馬！他無法相信自己的眼睛。他眼前一片模糊，金星亂迸。他使勁地揉了揉眼睛，好讓自己看清楚，這不是馬，而是一頭大棕熊。這頭野獸正在用一種好斗的狐疑目光打量著他。

這個人舉槍上肩，舉起一半才記起來沒有子彈。他放下槍，從臀部鑲珠的刀鞘里抽出了獵刀。他面前是肉和生命。他用大拇指試了試刀刃。刀刃異常鋒利。刀尖也非常鋒利。他本來會撲到熊的身上，殺了它，但是，他的心臟開始警告性地咚咚直跳。接著又向上狂跳，頭像上了鐵箍似的，大腦漸漸眩暈。

恐懼的巨浪驅(qū)散了他不顧一切的勇氣。他在虛弱之中，要是那只動物攻擊他，怎么辦？他挺起身子，擺出一副威風(fēng)凜凜的架勢，緊握獵刀，死死地盯著那頭熊。那頭熊笨拙地向前走了兩步，后腿直立，發(fā)出試探性的咆哮。要是這個人逃跑，它就會追上去；但是，這個人沒有逃跑。他現(xiàn)在因恐懼而產(chǎn)生的勇氣使他振奮了起來。他也發(fā)出野蠻可怕的咆哮，吐露出那種生死攸關(guān)、連接生命最深處的恐懼。

那頭熊緩緩地向一邊移動，發(fā)出威脅的咆哮，它自己被這個站得筆直、毫不畏懼的神秘動物嚇得膽戰(zhàn)心驚。這個人沒有動，如雕像一樣站立，直到危險過去，才一陣顫抖，倒在潮濕的苔蘚上。

他恢復(fù)平靜，繼續(xù)前進，現(xiàn)在又產(chǎn)生了一種新的恐懼。這不是害怕他會束手無策地死于缺食的恐懼，而是害怕還沒等饑餓耗盡他的最后一點求生力，他就會被殘忍地消滅。這里有狼。狼嗥聲在荒野上飄來飄去，在空中交織成一片危險的羅網(wǎng)。他發(fā)現(xiàn)這網(wǎng)觸手可摸，嚇得他舉起雙手，把它向后推去，就像它是被風(fēng)吹斜的帳篷一般。

那些狼不時地三三兩兩從他前面走過。但是，它們都避開他。一是因為它們數(shù)量不多，此外，它們要找的是不會搏斗的馴鹿，而這個直立走路的奇怪動物可能會又抓又咬。

傍晚時分，他碰到了一些散亂的骨頭，因為那些狼曾經(jīng)在這里咬死過一只動物。這些殘骸一小時前還是一頭小馴鹿，一邊尖叫，一邊奔跑，活蹦亂跳的。他凝視著這些骨頭，它們被啃得精光發(fā)亮，現(xiàn)出生命還未褪盡的粉紅色。天黑之前，他也可能變成這樣嗎？這就是生命嗎？真是一種轉(zhuǎn)瞬即逝的空虛東西。只有活著才會痛苦。死了，就不會有任何煩惱。死就是睡覺。它意味著結(jié)束和休息。那他為什么不愿意死呢？

不過，他并沒有對自己說教太久。他蹲在苔蘚地里，嘴里銜著一根骨頭，吮吸著仍然使骨頭微微泛紅的殘余生命。甜美的肉味像回憶一樣隱隱約約，難以捉摸，卻讓他要發(fā)瘋。他咬住骨頭，嘎吱嘎吱地嚼著。有時他咬碎骨頭，有時卻硌碎自己的牙齒。于是，他就用巖石砸碎骨頭，把它搗成醬，然后咽下去。匆忙之中，他有時也砸到自己的手指，而讓他一時感到吃驚的是，石頭砸下去，他的手指并不覺得很痛。

可怕的雨雪又來了。他不知道什么時候露宿，什么時候啟程。他白天黑夜都在趕路。他倒在哪里就在哪里休息。每當垂危的生命閃起火花、微微燃燒時，他就向前爬行。他不再像人那樣掙扎了。驅(qū)使他向前走的是他的生命，因為生命本身不愿死亡。他不再痛苦。他的神經(jīng)已經(jīng)變得遲鈍麻木；此時，他的腦海充滿了怪異的幻影和美妙的夢境。

但是，他總不斷吮吸和咀嚼那頭小馴鹿的碎骨頭，這是他收集起來帶上的一點殘屑。他不再翻山越嶺，只是順著一條流過寬闊淺谷的溪水機械地走去。他既沒有看到這條小溪，也沒有看到這道山谷，只看到了幻影。盡管靈魂和肉體并排前行或爬行，但它們彼此分開，相互之間的聯(lián)系微乎其微。

他醒來時，神智健全，仰躺在一塊巖石上。太陽溫暖明亮。他聽到遠處傳來一群小馴鹿的尖叫聲。他只隱約記得下過雨雪、刮過風(fēng)，但卻不知道他被暴風(fēng)雨吹打了兩天還是兩周。

他一動不動地躺了一段時間，溫和的太陽照在他的身上，也許他可以設(shè)法確定自己的方位。他用力側(cè)翻過身體。下面是一條流得很慢且很寬的河。這條陌生的河使他困惑不解。他慢慢地順著河望去，寬闊的河流蜿蜒穿行在光禿禿的小荒山之間，那些小山比他碰到過的任何小山都更光禿、更荒涼、更低矮。他緩慢地，從容地，不動聲色地，或者至多抱著極其偶然的興致，順著這條奇怪的河流的方向，朝地平線望去，看到它注入了明亮閃光的大海。他仍然不動聲色。太奇怪了，他想，這也許是幻影或海市蜃樓——十有八九是幻影，是他的錯亂神經(jīng)搞的鬼。他看到閃亮的大海上停泊著一艘輪船，就更加堅信這是幻影了。他閉了一會兒眼睛，然后又睜開。奇怪，那種幻影居然揮之不去！然而，這并不奇怪。他知道，在荒野中央絕不會有什么大海或輪船，就像他知道他的空槍里沒有子彈一樣。

他聽到背后傳來了吸鼻聲——仿佛是喘不過氣或咳嗽的聲音。由于他極度虛弱和僵硬，于是他慢慢地翻了一個身。他看不到附近有什么東西，但他耐心地等待著。吸鼻子和咳嗽的聲音再次傳來，在距離不到二十英尺的兩塊鋸齒狀的巖石之間，他看到了一匹灰狼的腦袋。那雙尖耳朵并不像他見過的其他狼那樣尖尖豎起；它的眼睛黯淡無光，布滿血絲；腦袋好像可憐無力地耷拉著。這匹狼在太陽下不停地眨著眼，好像有病。他看著它時，它又發(fā)出了吸鼻子和咳嗽的聲音。

至少這是真的，他一邊想，一邊翻過身，以便看清先前被幻影遮住的現(xiàn)實世界。但是，大海依舊在遠處閃亮，那艘輪船清晰可見。難道這是真的嗎？他閉了好一陣子眼睛，尋思著，那情景又出現(xiàn)在眼前。他一直在朝北偏東走，遠離狄斯分水嶺，進入了科珀曼河谷。這條緩慢寬闊的河就是科珀曼河。那片閃亮的大海是北冰洋。那是一艘捕鯨船，從麥肯齊河口出發(fā)，偏東，太偏東了，停泊在加冕灣。他記起了很久以前見過的那張哈得孫灣公司的地圖。在他看來，這一切都清清楚楚、合情合理。

他坐起來，把注意力轉(zhuǎn)向了眼前的事兒。他已經(jīng)磨穿了裹在腳上的毯子，腳爛得沒有一處好肉。最后一條毯子也用完了。步槍和獵刀也都不見了。他不知道把帽子丟在了什么地方，帽圈里那束火柴也丟了，但貼胸放在煙草袋里油紙包裹的火柴安然無恙，還是干的。他看了看手表。時間指向了十一點鐘，手表還在走。顯然，他一直沒有忘了上發(fā)條。

他冷靜沉著。盡管極度虛弱，但他沒有任何疼痛的感覺。他不餓。就連想到食物也無法給他帶來快感，而且無論做什么，他都只憑理智。他齊膝撕下兩截褲腿，裹住雙腳。他總算保住了那只白鐵罐子。他打算先喝點熱水，再開始向那艘輪船走去，他預(yù)見到這是一段可怕的路程。

他動作緩慢，像中風(fēng)似的哆嗦著。他開始收集干苔時，才發(fā)現(xiàn)自己站不起來了。他試了一遍又一遍，后來甘愿手膝并用爬行。有一次，他爬到了那匹病狼附近。那匹狼一邊不情愿地拖著身子離開他，一邊用那條好像幾乎無力卷曲的舌頭舔著嘴。這個人注意到它的舌頭不是通常那種健康的紅色，而是一種淡黃褐色，好像蒙著一層粗糙半干的黏液。

喝過熱水之后，這個人發(fā)現(xiàn)自己能站起來了，甚至還能像生命垂危的人那樣走路。他每走一分鐘左右，就不得不休息。他腳步踉蹌無力，就像跟在他后面的那匹狼一樣踉蹌無力。那天夜里，當黑暗籠罩了閃亮的大海時，他知道他離大海只是近了不到四英里。

整整一夜，他都聽到那匹病狼的咳嗽聲，有時還聽到那群小馴鹿的尖叫聲。他周圍都是生命，但那是強壯的生命，非常活潑健康；同時，他知道，那匹病狼對自己緊跟不舍，是希望自己先死。第二天早晨，他一睜開眼，就看到這匹狼正用一種如饑似渴的目光瞪著他。它夾著尾巴蹲伏在那里，好像一條可憐巴巴、愁眉苦臉的狗。它在早晨的寒風(fēng)中哆哆嗦嗦。當這個人用一種只是嘶啞的低語聲對它說話時，它有氣無力地齜著牙。

太陽燦爛地升了起來。整個早晨，這個人都跌跌撞撞地朝閃亮大海上的那條輪船走去。天氣好極了。這是高緯度地區(qū)短暫的晚春。它可能持續(xù)一周。也許明天或后天就會結(jié)束。

下午，這個人發(fā)現(xiàn)了蹤跡。那是另一個人的蹤跡，那個人不是步行，而是爬行。他認為可能是比爾，但他只是漠不關(guān)心地想想而已。他沒有什么好奇心。事實上，他已經(jīng)失去了知覺和感情，不再感到痛苦。他的胃和神經(jīng)都已經(jīng)睡著了。然而，內(nèi)在的生命驅(qū)使他前進。他疲憊不堪，但他的生命不愿死去。正是因為生命不愿死，他才仍然吃沼地漿果和鰷魚、喝熱水，時刻提防那匹病狼。

他沿著那個拖著身體前進的人的蹤跡向前走去，不久便走到了盡頭——那里有幾根剛啃光的骨頭，潮濕的苔蘚上留有許多狼的蹄印。他看到了一個跟他自己的那個一模一樣的短粗鹿皮袋，但已經(jīng)被尖利的牙齒撕破了。盡管他那無力的手幾乎拿不動這樣沉重的袋子，但他還是把它提了起來。比爾到死都帶著它。哈！哈！他可以嘲笑比爾了。他要活下去，把它帶到閃亮的大海的那艘輪船上。他的笑聲嘶啞可怕，就像烏鴉嘎嘎的叫聲，那匹病狼也隨著他，可憐巴巴地嗥叫著。那個人突然停住了笑聲。這要真的是比爾的骸骨，如果這些粉里透紅、啃得精光的骨頭要是比爾的話，他怎么能嘲笑呢？

他轉(zhuǎn)身走開了。不錯，是比爾拋棄了他。但是，他不會拿走那袋金子，也不會吸比爾的骨頭。不過，要是事兒顛倒過來，比爾就會那樣做，他一邊蹣跚前進，一邊沉思。他來到一個水坑邊，彎腰尋找鰷魚時，猛地仰起頭，好像被蜇了一下似的。他看到了自己映在水里的臉龐。臉龐可怕極了，一下子喚醒了休克已久的感覺能力。坑里有三條鰷魚，但坑太大了，舀不干。他用白鐵罐子去逮，試了好幾次都無濟于事。他極度虛弱，怕自己會跌進去淹死。正因為如此，盡管沙洲沿岸有許多浮木，但他也沒有跨上其中一根順河而下。

那天，他和那艘輪船之間的距離縮短了三英里。第二天，又縮短了兩英里——因為現(xiàn)在他像比爾先前那樣在爬行。到第五天結(jié)束時，他發(fā)現(xiàn)輪船離他仍然還有七英里。而他一天連一英里也爬不到。好天氣仍在持續(xù)，他繼續(xù)爬行暈倒，暈倒爬行；那匹病狼咳嗽和喘息著，始終跟在他的后面。他的膝蓋像他的腳一樣磨出了生肉；盡管他用背上的襯衫來墊膝蓋，但他身后的苔蘚和石頭上還是留下了一路血跡。有一次，他回頭看時，只見那匹狼正在如饑似渴地舔他的血跡，他清晰地看到了自己的結(jié)局可能是什么——除非——除非他殺了這匹狼。于是，一幕從來沒有上演過的無情的求生悲劇就開始了——病人一路爬行，病狼一路跛行，兩個生靈拖著垂死的軀殼穿過荒野，誰都想要了對方的命。

這要是一匹健康的狼，這個人就會覺得不大要緊。但是，一想到自己要喂這樣一匹令人作嘔、幾乎快死的狼，他就感到厭惡。他過于挑剔，又開始胡思亂想，各種幻覺又讓他不知所措，神志清醒的時間越來越少了。

有一次，他從昏迷中被一種貼在他耳邊的喘息聲驚醒。那匹狼一瘸一拐地跳回去，它身體虛弱，失足摔倒。盡管那情景滑稽可笑，但他并不開心，甚至也不害怕。他也快要死了。不過，他的頭腦暫時清醒。于是，他躺在那里，仔細考慮。那艘船離他不過四英里。他擦亮眼睛后，可以看得一清二楚；他還可以看到一條在閃亮的大海上破浪前進的小船的白帆。他卻絕不可能爬完這四英里。這他知道，而且知道之后非常鎮(zhèn)靜。他知道他連半英里也爬不了了。但是，他還是要活下去。在經(jīng)歷所有的一切后，他要死，是不切實際的。命運對他實在太苛刻了。然而，盡管奄奄一息，但他還是不愿死。也許這種想法完全是發(fā)瘋，但就是在死神的魔掌里，他也會蔑視死神，不愿去死。

他閉上眼睛，小心翼翼，保持鎮(zhèn)靜。倦怠像漲潮一樣，從他身體的所有部位涌上來，他硬起心腸，決心要戰(zhàn)勝這種令人窒息的倦怠。但這種致命的倦怠就像大海一樣漲了又漲，一點一點地淹沒了他的意識。有時，他幾乎被完全淹沒，劃動雙手，顫抖著游過一片盲區(qū)；有時他又會憑著一種奇怪的心靈作用，找到了一絲毅力，更加有力地游著。

他一動不動，仰躺在那里，聽到病狼氣喘吁吁的呼吸聲慢慢地越來越近了。經(jīng)過漫長的時間，它越來越近，不斷靠近，但他沒有動。它到了他的耳邊。那條粗糙干澀的舌頭像砂紙一樣摩擦他的臉頰。他的兩只手呼地伸出來——或者至少他決意要它們伸出來。他的手指彎得像鷹爪一樣，但它們抓了個空。敏捷和準確需要力量，這個人沒有這種力量。

那匹狼的耐心非常可怕。這個人的耐心也不是不可怕。他半天都躺著不動，竭力避免昏迷，等著那個要吃他、他也想吃對方的東西。有時，疲倦的浪潮向他涌上來，他做起了一個又一個長夢。然而，在整個過程中，無論是醒是夢，他都在等著那種呼哧呼哧的喘息和舌頭的粗糙撫摸。他沒有聽到這種喘息，慢慢地從夢里醒過來，感到那條舌頭在順著他的一只手舔動。他等待著。

狼牙輕輕地壓著，壓力漸漸加大；狼正在盡最后一點力氣設(shè)法把牙齒咬進它等了很久的食物。但是，這個人也等了很久，那只被咬破了的手也扣住了狼顎。慢慢地，在狼微弱掙扎，他的手無力抓緊時，另一只手慢慢地伸過來抓住。五分鐘后，這個人全身的重量都壓在了狼的身上。盡管兩只手的力量不足以把狼掐死，但這個人的臉緊緊地壓住了狼的咽喉，已是滿嘴狼毛。半小時后，這個人意識到一股溫暖的液體慢慢地流進他的喉嚨。這并不舒服，就像熔鉛被硬灌進了他的胃里，而且僅僅憑著他的意志硬灌了下去。隨后，這個人翻過身，仰面睡去。

“貝德福德號”捕鯨船上有一些科學(xué)考察隊隊員。他們從甲板上覺察到岸上有一個奇怪的東西。它正沿著沙灘移向海水。他們分不清那是什么。于是，作為科考隊員，他們就爬進旁邊的一只捕鯨艇，到岸上去察看。接著，他們就看到了一個活著的東西，但簡直難以把它稱為人。它眼睛失明，不省人事，像一條大蟲子似的在地上蠕動前進。它用的勁兒大多數(shù)都不起作用，但它堅持不懈，掙扎扭動，一小時大約向前爬二十英尺。

三個星期后，這個人躺在“貝德福德號”捕鯨船的床上，眼淚一邊順著他憔悴的臉頰向下流，一邊說出了他是誰和他經(jīng)歷的一切。同時，他又語無倫次地說到了他的母親，說到了陽光燦爛的南加州，說到了橘樹和花叢中的一個家。

沒過多少天，他就同那些科考隊員和高級船員坐在餐桌吃起了飯。他貪婪地望著面前這么多好吃的東西，焦急地看著它進入別人的嘴里。別人每咽下一口，他的眼里就會流露出一種深深遺憾的表情。他心智相當健全，但每當吃飯時，他都憎恨那些人。恐懼纏住了他，他害怕糧食維持不了多久。他向廚師、船上的服務(wù)員和船長打聽食物的貯量。他們向他保證了無數(shù)次，但他還是不相信他們，于是就狡猾地溜到貯藏室附近去親自窺探。

這個人漸漸胖了起來。他每天都在發(fā)胖。那些科考隊員都搖了搖頭，提出了他們的看法。他們限制了這個人的飯量，但他的腰圍還在加大，襯衣也被撐起來了，肚子鼓得驚人。

水手們都咧著嘴笑。他們心里有數(shù)。而當那些科考隊員監(jiān)視那個人時，他們也明白了。早飯后，他們看到他無精打采地向前走去，而且像乞丐一樣，向一個水手伸出手掌。那個水手咧嘴笑了笑，遞給他一塊壓縮面包。他貪婪地一把抓住，像守財奴看著金子一樣看著它，然后把它塞進了襯衫里面。其他咧嘴而笑的水手也送給了他類似的東西。這些科考隊員小心謹慎，不再管他。但是，他們常常會暗中檢查他的床鋪。他的床上擺著一排排硬面包，床墊都塞滿了硬面包；角角落落也都塞滿了硬面包。然而，他神志清醒。他是在預(yù)防可能發(fā)生的另一次饑荒——僅此而已。“他會恢復(fù)過來的。”科考隊員們說。事實也是如此，“貝德福德號”還沒有在舊金山灣隆隆拋下鐵錨，他就恢復(fù)過來了。