Fothergill pushed back his blanket, and looked about. His fire was low, the stars were dim, and day was breaking. Where the faint light touched the jack-pines the needles sparkled, and Fothergill, noting the hoar frost, did not want to get up. He was tired, and the dawn was cold; it looked as if Indian summer had vanished, and winter had begun. All the same, unless he started soon, he would not make the fort by dark, and he threw off his blanket.
His hands were numb, and he awkwardly broke the ice in his pannikin, and beat up dough for flapjacks. On winter patrol, the job he hated worst was to cook breakfast in the bitter mornings. For all that, he must eat, and when the meal was over he threw on fresh wood and resolved to smoke a pipe before he made his pack. After a few minutes he jumpe
