might have started for Whale River without further delay. But in the
wide waste barrens, illy clothed, with deep snow to wallow through, it
seemed to me absolutely certain that such an attempt would end in
exhaustion and death, so we restrained our impatience and waited. On
scraps of paper we played tit-tat-toe; we improvised a checkerboard
and played checkers. These pastimes broke the monotony of waiting
somewhat. No matter what we talked about, our conversation always
drifted to something to eat. We planned sumptuous banquets we were to
have at that uncertain period "when we get home," discussing in the
minutest detail each dish. Once or twice Easton roused me in the
night to ask whether after all some other roast or soup had not better
be selected than the one we had decided upon, or to suggest a change
in vegetables.

We slept five times instead of thrice and still no succor came. The
days were short, the nights interminably long. I knew we could live
for twelve or fifteen days easily on water. I had recovered entirely
from the chills and cramps and we were both feeling well but, of
course, rather weak. We had lost no flesh to speak of. The extreme
hunger had passed away after a couple of days. It is only when
starving people have a little to eat that the hunger period lasts
longer than that. Novelists write a lot of nonsense about the pangs
of hunger and the extreme suffering that accompanies starvation. It
is all poppycock. Any healthy person, with a normal appetite, after
missing two or three meals is as hungry as he ever gets. After awhile
there is a sense of weakness that grows on one, and this increases
with the days. Then there comes a desire for a great deal of sleep, a
sort of lassitude that is not unpleasant, and this desire becomes more
pronounced as the weakness grows. The end is always in sleep. There
is no keeping awake until the hour of death.