This was the last thing in the world he had dreamed of, all
this snow, all this emptiness that loomed up ahead of him, a great world
filled only with trees and winter. He disliked winter; he had always
possessed a physical antipathy for snow; romance, for him, was environed
in warm climes and sunny seas. He had made a mistake in telling Father
Roland that he was going to British Columbia--a great mistake.
Undoubtedly he would have kept on. Japan had been in his mind. And now
here he was headed straight for the north pole--the Arctic Ocean. It was
enough to make him want to laugh. Enough to make any sane person laugh.
Even now, only half a mile from Thoreau's cabin, his knees were
beginning to ache and his ankles were growing heavy. It was ridiculous.
Inconceivable, as the Frenchman had said to Marie. He was soft. He was
only half a man. How long would he last? How long before he would have
to cry quits, like a whipped boy? How long before his legs would crumple
up under him, and his lungs give out? How long before Father Roland,
hiding his contempt, would have to send him back?
A sense of shame--shame and anger--swept through him, heating his brain,
setting his teeth hard, filling him again with a grim determination.
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