He cooked the tenderest parts of the squirrel and ate, still forcing his
appetite. Then he carefully put out the fire and went a mile further up
the creek. He felt stronger, but he knew that he was not yet in any
condition for a long journey. He was most intent now upon guarding
against a return of the chill. It was not the right time for one to be
ill. Again he sought a place in a thicket, like an animal going to its
den, and, wrapping himself tightly in the blankets, lay down.
He watched with anxiety for the first shiver of the dreaded chill. Once
or twice imagination made him feel sure that it had come, but it always
passed quickly. His body remained warm, and, while he was still watching
for the chill, he fell asleep, and slept soundly all through the night.
The break of day aroused him. He felt strong and well, and he was in a
pleasant glow, because he knew now that the chill would not come. It had
been due to overtaxed nerves, and there was no malaria in his system.
He hunted again among the big trees until he found a squirrel on one of
the high boughs. He fired at it and missed. He found another soon and
killed it at the first shot. But the miss had been a grave matter.
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