Death by starvation, thirst and madness loomed before him.
Nervously he recommenced his pacing.

Another terribly serious factor was to be considered.

He had now been three hours without his dose of morphia, and his nerves were calling, tugging insistently for it.
"Rotten luck," he grumbled, "that I've got none with me!" Even there, in the imminent presence of disaster and death, his mind reverted to the poison, more necessary to him than food.
Waldron now had grown fairly calm.

He stood leaning against the steel ladder, down which they had descended.

Choosing a cigar, he proceeded to light up.
"Might as well be comfortable while we wait," said he.