E. R. Punshon

Summary

E. R. Punshon The Saving of Pete Conlan (1918)

His only consolation was to sit by the fire at night and think what Hall would have to go through. Great Heavens, I don't suppose any man ever hated any other quite so awful as Mike Pierce came to hate that little London chap from the Mile End Road.
When the weather broke, the snow came, the bitter, blinding snow, driving so thick and fast before the gale that a man could not see his mittened hand if he held it before his face, and the dogs set on the trail would only whimper and turn their noses up-wind. For a week they were held fast, and they not fifty miles on their journey.
Source: Wikisource

E. R. Punshon The Saving of Pete Conlan (1918)

It was talked about a good deal in the saloons, and the more we thought of him out there, the other side of Lost Men's Hills, miles from help, with the winter gales roaring past straight from the Pole itself, and the thermometer dropping and dropping like it meant to touch bottom and couldn't, but would go on trying—why, the warmer and cosier the saloons used to seem.
"Wonder how Pete's doing?" men used to say to each other, and then they would liquor up and grow quiet and thoughtful.
Source: Wikisource

E. R. Punshon The Saving of Pete Conlan (1918)

They lost both their last dogs, and quarrelled feebly, in bitter whispers, about whose fault it was. Mike got his knife out, and Hall tried to load their gun; but his fingers were too stiff to get the cartridge into the breech, and Mike was so weak he let the knife fall in the snow and lost it. Luckily there was plenty of wood about, and Hall built the biggest fire they had had for a long time, though its warmth was against at last to the cold as a child's lifted hand against the march of a conquering army.
Source: Wikisource

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