With old, half-forgotten signals from the football field he spurred his
will. Perhaps his mind was already beginning to wander, though through
it all he held steadily to the direction that alone could save him.
He clapped his hands feebly and stooped for the plunge at the line of
the enemy. "'Attaboy, Gord--'attaboy--nine, eleven, seventeen. Hit 'er
low, you Elliot."
When at last he went down to stay it was in an exhaustion so complete
that not even his indomitable will could lash him to his feet again.
For an hour he lay in a stupor, never stirring even to fight the swarm
of mosquitoes that buzzed about him.
Toward evening he sat up and undid the pack from his back. The matches,
in a tin box wrapped carefully with oilskin, were still perfectly dry.
Soon he had a fire going and coffee boiling in the frying-pan. From
the tin cup he carried strung on his belt he drank the coffee. It went
through him like strong liquor. He warmed some beans and fried himself a
slice of bacon, sopping up the grease with a cold biscuit left over from
the day before.
Again he slept for a few hours. He had wound his watch mechanically
and it showed him four o'clock when he took up the trail once more.
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