He had mumbled something about police, arrest and murder during the struggle, but DeBar spoke for the first time now.
"You're cold," he said.
"I'm freezing to death," said Philip.
"And I'm--starving." DeBar rose to his feet.

Philip drew himself together, as if expecting an attack, but in place of it DeBar held out a warmly mittened hand.
"You've got to get those clothes off--quick--or you'll die," he said.
"Here!" Mechanically Philip reached up his hand, and DeBar took him to his sledge behind the fire and wrapped about him a thick blanket.

Then he drew out a sheath knife and ripped the frozen legs of his trousers up and the sleeves of his coat down, cut the string of his shoe-packs and slit his heavy German socks, and after that he rubbed his feet and legs and arms until Philip began to feel a sting like the prickly bite of nettles.
"Ten minutes more and you'd been gone," said DeBar.
He wrapped a second blanket around Philip, and dragged the sledge on which he was lying still nearer to the fire.

Then he threw on a fresh armful of dry sticks and from a pocket of his coat drew forth something small and red and frozen, which was the carcass of a bird about the size of a robin.

DeBar held it up between his forefinger and thumb, and looking at Philip, the flash of a smile passed for an instant over his grizzled face.
"Dinner," he said, and Philip could not fail to catch the low chuckling note of humor in his voice.