nclined to do on this particular day. He
had no suspicion that a bear which he was destined never to see had
become the greatest factor in his life. He was philosopher enough to
appreciate the value and importance of little things, but the bear
track did not keep him silent because he regarded it as significant,
because he wanted to kill. He would have welcomed it to dinner, and
would have talked to it were it as affable and good-mannered as the big
pop-eyed moose-birds that were already flirting about near him.

He emptied a half of the contents of the rubber sack out on the sand
and made a selection for dinner, and he chuckled in his big happiness
as he saw how attenuated his list of supplies was becoming. There was
still a quarter of a pound of tea, no sugar, no coffee, half a dozen
pounds of flour, twenty-seven prunes jealously guarded in a piece of
narwhal skin, a little salt and pepper mixed, and fresh caribou meat.

"It's a lovely day, and we'll have a treat for dinner," he informed
himself. "No need of starving. We'll have a real feast. I'll cook SEVEN
prunes instead of five!"

He built a small fire, hung two small pots over it, selected his
prunes, and measured out a tablespoonful of black tea. In the respite
he had while the water heated he dug a small mirror out of the sack and
looked at himself. His long, untrimmed hair was blond, and the inch of
stubble on his face was brick red. There were tiny creases at the
corners of his eyes, caused by the blistering sleet and cold wind of
the Arctic coast. He grimaced as he studied himself. Then his face
lighted up with sudden inspiration.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "I need a shave! We'll use the prune
water."

From the rubber bag he fished out his razor, a nubbin of soap, and a
towel. For fifteen minutes after that he sat cross-legged on the sand,
with the mirror on a rock, and worked. When he had finished he
inspected himself closely.

"You're not half bad," he concluded, and he spoke seriously now. "Four
years ago when you started up here you were thirty--and you looked
forty. Now you're thirty-four, and if it wasn't for the snow lines in
your eyes I'd say you were a day or two younger. That's pretty good."

He had washed his face and was drying it with the towel when a sound
made him look over beyond the rocks. It was the crackling sound made by
a dead stick stepped upon, or a sapling broken down. Either meant the
bear.

Dropping the towel, he unbutto