The little box stove was waiting for a fire.

Behind it was a pile of wood.

On the table were the old tin dishes, and hanging from babiche cords fastened to the roof timbers, out of reach of mice and ermine, were blankets and clothing and other possessions he had left behind him in that winter break-up of what seemed like ages ago to him.

He raised a small section in the floor, and there were his traps, thickly coated with caribou grease.

For half an hour before he built a fire he sought eagerly for the things he had concealed here and there.