The dogs wore good warm coats of fur, and if he had a coat made of dog
skins it would keep him warm enough to protect his life, at least,
from the cold. Now the animals were docile enough. Clustered about his
feet, they were looking up into his face expectantly and confidently.
He loved them as a good man always loves the beasts that serve him.
They had hauled him over many a weary mile of snow and ice, and had
been his companions and shared with him the hardships of many a
winter's storm.
But it was his life or theirs. If he were to survive the night, some
of the dogs must be sacrificed. In all probability he and they would
be drowned anyway before another night fell upon the world.
There was no time to be lost in vain regrets and indecision. Grenfell
drew his sheath knife, and as hard as we know it was for him,
slaughtered three of the animals. This done, he removed their pelts,
and wrapping the skins about him, huddled down among the living dogs
for a night of long, tedious hours of waiting and uncertainty, until
another day should break.
That must have been a period of terrible suffering for Grenfell, but
he had a stout heart and he survived it.
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