This thought tended to put him in a panic， but he fought againstit and kept calm. He pulled on his mittens with his teeth， andthreshed his arms back and forth， beating his hands with all hismight against his sides. He did this sitting down， and he stoodup to do it； and all the while the dog sat in the snow， its wolfbrushof a tail curled around warmly over its forefeet， its sharpwolf-ears pricked forward intently as it watched the man. Andthe man as he beat and threshed with his arms and hands， felt agreat surge of envy as he regarded the creature that was warmand secure in its natural covering.
After a time he was aware of the first far-away signals ofsensation in his beaten fingers. The faint tingling grew strongertill it evolved into a stinging ache that was excruciating， butwhich the man hailed with satisfaction. He stripped the mittenfrom his right hand and fetched forth the birch-bark. Theexposed fingers were quickly going numb again. Next hebrought out his bunch of sulphur matches. But the tremendouscold had already driven the life out of his fingers. In his effortto separate one match from the others， the whole bunch fellin the snow. He tried to pick it out of the snow， but failed.
The dead fingers could neither touch nor clutch. He was verycareful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet； and nose，and cheeks， out of his mind， devoting his whole soul to thematches. He watched， using the sense of vision in place of thatof touch， and when he saw his fingers on each side the bunch，he closed them—that is， he willed to close them， for the wireswere drawn， and the fingers did not obey. He pulled the mittenon the right hand， and beat it fiercely against his knee. Then，with both mittened hands， he scooped the bunch of matches，along with much snow， onto his lap. Yet he was no better off.
After some manipulation he managed to get the bunchbetween the heels of his mittened hands. In this fashion hecarried it to his mouth. The ice crackled and snapped when bya violent effort he opened his mouth. He drew the lower jawin， curled the upper lip out of the way， and scraped the bunchwith his upper teeth in order to separate a match. He succeededin getting one， which he dropped on his lap. He was no betteroff. He could not pick it up. Then he devised a way. He pickedit up in his teeth and scratched it on his leg. Twenty times hescratched before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamed he heldit with his teeth to the birch-bark. But the burning brimstonewent up his nostrils and into his lungs， causing him to coughspasmodically. The match fell into the snow and went out.
The old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right， he thoughtin the moment of controlled despair that ensued： after fiftybelow， a man should travel with a partner. He beat his hands，but failed in exciting any sensation. Suddenly he bared bothhands， removing the mittens with his teeth. He caught thewhole bunch between the heels of his hands. His arm-musclesnot being frozen enabled him to press the hand-heels tightlyagainst the matches. Then he scratched the bunch along his leg.
It flared into flame， seventy sulphur matches at once！ Therewas no wind to blow them out. He kept his head to one side toescape the strangling fumes， and held the blazing bunch to thebirch-bark. As he so held it， he became aware of sensation inhis hand. His flesh was burning. He could smell it. Deep downbelow the surface he could feel it. The sensation developedinto pain that grew acute. And still he endured it， holdingthe flame of the matches clumsily to the bark that would notlight readily because his own burning hands were in the way，absorbing most of the flame.
At last， when he could endure no more， he jerked his handsapart. The blazing matches fell sizzling into the snow， but thebirch-bark was alight. He began laying dry grasses and thetiniest twigs on the flame. He could not pick and choose， for hehad to lift the fuel between the heels of his hands. Small piecesof rotten wood and green moss clung to the twigs， and he bitthem off as well as he could with his teeth. He cherished theflame carefully and awkwardly. It meant life， and it must notperish. The withdrawal of blood from the surface of his bodynow made him begin to shiver， and he grew more awkward.
A large piece of green moss fell squarely on the little fire. Hetried to poke it out with his fingers， but his shivering framemade him poke too far， and he disrupted the nucleus of thelittle fire， the burning grasses and tiny twigs separating andscattering. He tried to poke them together again， but in spiteof the tenseness of the effort， his shivering got away with him，and the twigs were hopelessly scattered. Each twig gushed apuff of smoke and went out. The fire-provider had failed. Ashe looked apathetically about him， his eyes chanced on thedog， sitting across the ruins of the fire from him， in the snow，making restless， hunching movements， slightly lifting oneforefoot and then the other， shifting its weight back and forthon them with wistful eagerness.
The sight of the dog put a wild idea into his head. Heremembered the tale of the man， caught in a blizzard， whokilled a steer and crawled inside the carcass， and so was saved.
He would kill the dog and bury his hands in the warm bodyuntil the numbness went out of them. Then he could buildanother fire. He spoke to the dog， calling it to him； but in hisvoice was a strange note of fear that frightened the animal，who had never known the man to speak in such way before.
Something was the matter， and its suspicious nature senseddanger，—it knew not what danger but somewhere， somehow，in its brain arose an apprehension of the man. It flattened itsears down at the sound of the man’s voice， and its restless，hunching movements and the liftings and shiftings of itsforefeet became more pronounced but it would not come tothe man. He got on his hands and knees and crawled towardthe dog. This unusual posture again excited suspicion， and theanimal sidled mincingly away.