"London, Jack - TO BUILD A FIRE" - читать интересную книгу автора (London Jack)

was not deep. He wet himself halfway to the knees before he
floundered out to the firm crust.

He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get
into camp with the boys at six o'clock, and this would delay him
an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his
footgear. This was imperative at that low temperature--for he
knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he
climbed. On top, tangled in the underbrush about the trunks of
several small spruce trees, was a high water deposit of dry
firewood--sticks and twigs, principally, but also larger portions
of seasoned branches and fine, dry, last year's grasses. He threw
down several large pieces on top of the snow. This served for a
foundation and prevented the young flame from drowning itself in
the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame he got by touching a
match to a small shred of birch bark that he took from his
pocket. This burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on
the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass
and with the tiniest dry twigs.

He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger.
Gradually, as the flame grew stronger, he increased the size of
the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow, pulling
the twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feeding
directly to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. When it
is seventy-five below zero, a man must not fail in his first
attempt to build a fire---that is, if his feet are wet. If his
feet are dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a
mile and restore his circulation. But the circulation of wet and
freezing feet cannot be restored by running when it is seventy-
five below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet feet will freeze
the harder.

All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur Creek had
told him about it the previous fall, and now he was appreciating
the advice. Already all sensation had gone out of his feet. To
build the fire he had been forced to remove his mittens, and the
fingers had quickly gone numb. His pace of four miles an hour had
kept his heart pumping blood to the surface of his body and to
all the extremities. But the instant he stopped, the action of
the pump eased down. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip
of the planet, and he, being on that unprotected tip, received
the full force of the blow. the blood of his body recoiled before
it. The blood was alive, like the dog, and like the dog it wanted
to hide away and cover itself up from the fearful cold. So long
as he walked four miles an hour, he pumped that blood, willy-
nilly, to the surface; but now it ebbed away and sank down into
the recesses of his body. The extremities were the first to feel
its absence. His wet feet froze the faster, and his exposed
fingers numbed the faster, though they had not yet begun to