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faintest crunch on the thin layer or 
snow and the rattling of more snow as 
it slid off my tent from a blow that had 
been struck on the outside. 
I jumped to the door of the tent. It 
was the cook. 
“ Purty cold in there, ain’t it? You’d 
a good sight better come to the fire. 
Ain’t you got a slicker ?” 
I put on a mackintosh and overshoes 
and went to the fire. ‘The weather was 
now indulging in a big flake snow that 
slid stealthily to the ground and disap- 
peared into water on whatever obstacle it 
found there. It found me. The cook 
was cleaning knives—the cooking 
knives, the eating knives, and a full 
set of hunting knives, long and short, 
slim and broad, all sharp and efficacious. 
He handled them lovingly, rubbed 
off some blood rust here and there, and 
