of the rooms on the lower
floor of the house, with the understanding that the nurse was to call
him in case of any change.

But as the doctor was groping his way down the darkened stairway he
stumbled against Adler and Kamiska. Adler was sitting on one of the
steps, and the dog was on her haunches close at his side; the two were
huddled together there in the dark, broad awake, shoulder to shoulder,
waiting, watching, and listening for the faint sounds that came at long
intervals from the direction of the room where Bennett lay.

As the physician passed him Adler stood up and saluted:

"Is he doing any better now, sir?" he whispered.

"Nothing new," returned the other brusquely. "He may get well in three
weeks' time or he may die before midnight; so there you are. You know as
much about it as I do. Damn that dog!"

He trod upon Kamiska, who forbore heroically to yelp, and went on his
way. Adler resumed his place on the stairs, sitting down gingerly, so
that the boards should not creak under his weight. He took Kamiska's
head between his hands and rocked himself gently to and fro.

"What are we going to do, little dog?" he whispered. "What are we going
to do if--if our captain should--if he shouldn't--" he had no words to
finish. Kamiska took her place again by his side, and the two resumed
their vigil.

Meanwhile, not fifty feet away, a low voice, monotonous and rapid, was
keeping up a continuous, murmuring flow of words.

"That's well your number two sledge. All hands on the McClintock
now. You've got to do it, men. Forward, get forward, get forward;
get on to the south, always to the south--south, south, south!...
There, there's the ice again. That's the biggest ridge yet. At it
now! Smash through; I'll break you yet; believe me, I will! There,
we broke it! I knew you could, men. I'll pull you through. Now,
then, h'up your other sledge. Forward! There will be double rations
to-night all round--no--half-rations, quarter-rations.... No,
three-fifths of an ounce of dog-meat and a spoonful of alcohol--that's
all; that's all, men. Pretty cold night, this--minus thirty-eight.
Only a quarter of a mile covered to-day. Everybody suffering in their
feet, and so weak--and starving--and freezing." All at once the voice
became a wail. "My God! is it never going to end?... Sh--h, steady,
what was that? Who whimpered? Was that Ward Bennett? No whimpering,
whatever comes. Stick it out like men, anyway. Fight it out till we