"December 5th--Sunday--Dennison found dead this morning between
Adler and myself. Too weak to bury him, or even carry him out of
the tent. He must lie where he is. Divine services at 5:30
P.M. Last spoonful of glycerine and hot water."

* * * * *

The next day was Monday, and at some indeterminate hour of the
twenty-four, though whether it was night or noon he could not say,
Ferriss woke in his sleeping-bag and raised himself on an elbow, and for
a moment sat stupidly watching Bennett writing in his journal. Noticing
that he was awake, Bennett looked up from the page and spoke in a voice
thick and muffled because of the swelling of his tongue.

"How long has this wind been blowing, Ferriss?"

"Since a week ago to-day," answered the other.

Bennett continued his writing.

"...Incessant gales of wind for over a week. Impossible to move
against them in our weakened condition. But to stay here is to
perish. God help us. It is the end of everything."

Bennett drew a line across the page under the last entry, and, still
holding the book in his hand, gazed slowly about the tent.

There were six of them left--five huddled together in that miserable
tent--the sixth, Adler, being down on the shore gathering shrimps. In
the strange and gloomy half-light that filled the tent these survivors