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.
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