Behind him churned a heavily loaded Yukon sled, and before him
toiled a string of five dogs. The rope by which they dragged the
sled rubbed against the side of Messner's leg. When the dogs swung
on a bend in the trail, he stepped over the rope. There were many
bends, and he was compelled to step over it often. Sometimes he
tripped on the rope, or stumbled, and at all times he was awkward,
betraying a weariness so great that the sled now and again ran upon
his heels.
When he came to a straight piece of trail, where the sled could get
along for a moment without guidance, he let go the gee-pole and
batted his right hand sharply upon the hard wood. He found it
difficult to keep up the circulation in that hand. But while he
pounded the one hand, he never ceased from rubbing his nose and
cheeks with the other.
"It's too cold to travel, anyway," he said. He spoke aloud, after
the manner of men who are much by themselves. "Only a fool would
travel at such a temperature. If it isn't eighty below, it's
because it's seventy-nine."
He pulled out his watch, and after some fumbling got it back into
the breast pocket of his thick woollen jacket.
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