the other.
With little to do, time became an intolerable burden to them. This naturally made them still
lazier. They sank into a physical lethargy which there was no escaping, and which made
them rebel at the performance of the smallest chore. One morning when it was his turn to
cook the common breakfast, Weatherbee rolled out of his blankets, and to the snoring of his
companion, lighted first the slush lamp and then the fire. The kettles were frozen hard, and
there was no water in the cabin with which to wash. But he did not mind that. Waiting for it
to thaw, he sliced the bacon and plunged into the hateful task of bread-making. Cuthfert had
been slyly watching through his half-closed lids.
Consequently there was a scene, in which they fervently blessed each other, and agreed,
henceforth, that each do his own cooking. A week later, Cuthfert neglected his morning
ablutions, but none the less complacently ate the meal which he had cooked. Weatherbee
grinned. After that the foolish custom of washing passed out of their lives.
As the sugar-pile and other little luxuries dwindled, they began to be afraid they were not
getting their proper shares, and in order that they might not be robbed, they fell to gorging
themselves. The luxuries suffered in this gluttonous contest, as did also the men.
In the absence of fresh vegetables and exercise, their blood became impoverished, and a
loathsome, purplish rash crept over their bodies. Yet they refused to heed the warning.
Next, their muscles and joints began to swell, the flesh turning black, while their mouths,
gums, and lips took on the color of rich cream. Instead of being drawn together by their
misery, each gloated over the other's symptoms as the scurvy took its course.
They lost all regard for personal appearance, and for that matter, common decency. The
cabin became a pigpen, and never once were the beds made or fresh pine boughs laid
underneath. Yet they could not keep to their blankets, as they would have wished; for the
frost was inexorable, and the fire box consumed much fuel. The hair of their heads and
faces grew long and shaggy, while their garments would have disgusted a ragpicker. But
they did not care. They were sick, and there was no one to see; besides, it was very painful
to move about.
To all this was added a new trouble--the Fear of the North. This Fear was the joint child of
the Great Cold and the Great Silence, and was born in the darkness of December, when the
sun dipped below the horizon for good. It affected them according to their natures.
Weatherbee fell prey to the grosser superstitions, and did his best to resurrect the spirits
which slept in the forgotten graves. It was a fascinating thing, and in his dreams they came
to him from out of the cold, and snuggled into his blankets, and told him of their toils and
troubles ere they died. He shrank away from the clammy contact as they drew closer and
twined their frozen limbs about him, and when they whispered in his ear of things to come,
the cabin rang with his frightened shrieks. Cuthfert did not understand- for they no longer
spoke--and when thus awakened he invariably grabbed for his revolver. Then he would sit
up in bed, shivering nervously, with the weapon trained on the unconscious dreamer.
Cuthfert deemed the man going mad, and so came to fear for his life.