When all was ready， the man reached in his pocket for asecond piece of birch-bark. He knew the bark was there，and， though he could not feel it with his fingers， he couldhear its crisp rustling as he fumbled for it. Try as he would，he could not clutch hold of it. And all the time， in hisconsciousness， was the knowledge that each instant hisfeet were freezing. This thought tended to put him in apanic， but he fought against it and kept calm. He pulledon his mittens with his teeth， and threshed his arms backand forth， beating his hands with all his might againsthis sides. He did this sitting down， and he stood up todo it； and all the while the dog sat in the snow， its wolfbrushof a tail curled around warmly over its forefeet， itssharp wolf-ears pricked forward intently as it watched theman. And the man， as he beat and threshed with his armsand hands， felt a great surge of envy as he regarded thecreature that was warm and secure in its natural covering.
After a time he was aware of the first faraway signalsof sensation in his beaten fingers. The faint tinglinggrew stronger till it evolved into a stinging ache that wasexcruciating， but which the man hailed with satisfaction.
He stripped the mitten from his right hand and fetchedforth the birch-bark. The exposed fingers were quicklygoing numb again. Next he brought out his bunch ofsulphur matches. But the tremendous cold had alreadydriven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to separateone match from the others， the whole bunch fell in thesnow. He tried to pick it out of the snow， but failed. Thedead fingers could neither touch nor clutch. He was verycareful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet， andnose， and cheeks， out of his mind， devoting his whole soulto the matches. He watched， using the sense of vision inplace of that of touch， and when he saw his fingers on eachside the bunch， he closed them—that is， he willed to closethem， for the wires were down， and the fingers did notobey. He pulled the mitten on the right hand， and beat itfiercely against his knee. Then， with both mittened hands，he scooped the bunch of matches， along with much snow，into 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 fashionhe carried it to his mouth. The ice crackled and snappedwhen by a violent effort he opened his mouth. He drewthe lower jaw in， curled the upper lip out of the way，and scraped the bunch with his upper teeth in order toseparate a match. He succeeded in getting one， whichhe dropped on his lap. He was no better off. He couldnot pick it up. Then he devised a way. He picked it upin his teeth and scratched it on his leg. Twenty times hescratched before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamedhe held it with his teeth to the birch-bark. But the burningbrimstone went up his nostrils and into his lungs， causinghim to cough spasmodically. The match fell into the snowand went out.
The old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right， he thoughtin the moment of controlled despair that ensued： afterfifty below， a man should travel with a partner. He beathis hands， but failed in exciting any sensation. Suddenlyhe bared both hands， removing the mittens with his teeth.
He caught the whole bunch between the heels of hishands. His arm-muscles not being frozen enabled him topress the hand-heels tightly against the matches. Thenhe scratched the bunch along his leg. It flared into flame，seventy sulphur matches at once！ There was no wind toblow them out. He kept his head to one side to escape thestrangling fumes， and held the blazing bunch to the birchbark.
As he so held it， he became aware of sensation inhis hand. His flesh was burning. He could smell it. Deepdown below the surface he could feel it. The sensationdeveloped into pain that grew acute. And still he enduredit， holding the flame of the matches clumsily to the barkthat would not light readily because his own burninghands were in the way， absorbing most of the flame.
At last， when he could endure no more， he jerked hishands apart. The blazing matches fell sizzling into thesnow， but the birch-bark was alight. He began laying drygrasses and the tiniest twigs on the flame. He could notpick and choose， for he had to lift the fuel between theheels of his hands. Small pieces of rotten wood and greenmoss clung to the twigs， and he bit them off as well ashe could with his teeth. He cherished the flame carefullyand awkwardly. It meant life， and it must not perish. Thewithdrawal of blood from the surface of his body nowmade him begin to shiver， and he grew more awkward. Alarge piece of green moss fell squarely on the little fire.
He tried to poke it out with his fingers， but his shiveringframe made him poke too far， and he disrupted thenucleus of the little fire， the burning grasses and tiny twigsseparating and scattering. He tried to poke them togetheragain， but in spite of the tenseness of the effort， hisshivering got away with him， and the twigs were hopelesslyscattered. Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out.
The fire-provider had failed. As he looked apatheticallyabout him， his eyes chanced on the dog， sitting across theruins of the fire from him， in the snow， making restless，hunching movements， slightly lifting one forefoot andthen the other， shifting its weight back and forth on themwith wistful eagerness.
