The mouse was humped on his breast in that curious little ball that it
made of itself, and was eyeing him, Jim thought, in a questioning sort of
way, "What's the matter with you?" it seemed to ask. "Where are your
hands?"
And Jim answered:
"They've got me, old man. Now what the dickens are we going to do?"
The mouse began investigating. It examined his shoulder, the end of his
chin, and ran along his arm, as far as it could go.
"Now what do you think of that!" Falkner exclaimed softly. "The little
cuss is wondering where my hands are!" Gently he rolled over on his side.
"There they are," he said, "hitched tighter 'n bark to a tree!"
He wiggled his fingers, and in a moment he felt the mouse. The little
creature ran across the opened palm of his hand to his wrist, and then
every muscle in Falkner's body grew tense, and one of the strangest cries
that ever fell from human lips came from his. The mouse had found once
more the dried hide-flesh of which the snowshoe webs were made. It had
found babiche. And it had begun TO GNAW!
In the minutes that followed Falkner scarcely breathed. He could feel the
mouse when it worked. Above the stifled beating of his heart he could
hear its tiny jaws. In those moments he knew that his last hope of life
hung in the balance. Five, ten minutes passed, and not until then did he
strain at the thongs that bound his wrists. Was that the bed that had
snapped? Or was it the breaking of one of the babiche cords? He strained
harder.
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