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As the other’s struggles diminished, he came to himself, however, and desisted.

“I can’t kill him,” he thought in panic. “I can’t go on alone.”

“Get up!” He kicked the bleeding figure till it arose lamely. “Why did you do that?” His desire to strangle the life from him was over-powering.

The man gave no answer, muttering only unintelligible jargon, his eyes ablaze with hatred.

“Tell me.” He shook him by the throat but received no reply. Nor could he, try as he pleased; only a stubborn silence. At last, disgusted and baffled, he bade him resume the rope. It was necessary to use force for this, but eventually they took up the journey, differing now only in their order of precedence.

“If you make a move I’ll knife you,” he cautioned grimly. “That goes for the whole trip, too.”

At evening he searched the grub kit, breaking knives and forks, and those articles which might be used as means of offence, throwing the pieces into the snow.

“Don’t stir during the night, or I might kill you. I wake easy, and hereafter we’ll sleep together.” Placing the weapons within his shirt, he bound the other’s wrists and rolled up beside him.

Along the coast, their going became difficult from the rough ice and soft snow, and with despair Captain felt the days going by. Klusky maintained his muteness and, moreover, to the anger of his captor, began to shirk. It became necessary to beat him. This Captain did relentlessly, deriving a certain satisfaction from it, yet marvelling the while at his own cruelty. The Jew feigned weariness, and began to limp as though foot-sore.

Captain halted him at last.

“Don’t try that game,” he said. “It don’t go. I spared your life for a purpose. The minute you stop pulling, that minute I’ll sink this into your ribs.” He prodded him with his sheath knife. “Get along now, or I’ll make you haul it alone.” He kicked him into resentful motion again, for he had come to look upon him as an animal, and was heedless of his signs of torture–so thus they marched; master and slave. “He’s putting it on,” he thought, but abuse as he might, the other’s efforts became weaker, and his agony more marked as the days passed.

The morning came when he refused to arise.

“Get up!”

Klusky shook his head.

“Get up, I say!” Captain spoke fiercely, and snatched him to foot, but with a groan the man sank back. Then, at last, he talked.

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it. My legs make like they von’t vork. You can kill me, but I can’t valk.”

As he ceased, Captain leaned down and pushed back his lips. The teeth were loose and the gums livid.

“Great Heavens, what have I done! What have I done!” he muttered.

Klusky had watched his face closely.

“Vat’s the mattaire? Vy do you make like that, eh? Tell me.” His voice was sharp.

“You’ve got it.”

“I’ve got it? Oi! Oi! I’ve got it! Vat have I got?” He knew before the answer came, but raved and cursed in frenzied denial. His tongue started, language flowed from him freely.

“It ain’t that. No! No! It is the rheumatissen. Yes, it shall be so. It makes like that from the hard vork always. It is the cold–the cold makes it like.”

With despair Captain realized that he could neither go on, dragging the sick man and outfit, nor could he stay here in idleness to sacrifice the precious days that remained to his partner. Each one he lost might mean life or death.

Klusky broke in upon him.

“You von’t leave me, Mistaire Captain? Please you von’t go avay?”

Such frightened entreaty lay in his request that before thinking the other replied.