his numb fingers

But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be only touched by the frost, for the fire
was beginning to burn with strength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of his finger. In
another minute he would be able to feed it with branches the size of his wrier, and then he
could remove his wet toot-gear, and, while it dried, he could keep his naked feet warm by
the fire, rubbing them at first, of course, with snow. The fire was a success. He was safe.
He remembered the advice of the old timer on Sulphur Creek, and smiled. The old-timer had
been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after
fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved
himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, some of them, he thought. All a man had to
do was to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But
it was surprising, the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were freezing. And he had not
thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short a time. Lifeless they were, for he could
scarcely make them move together to grip a twig, and they seemed remote from his body and
from him. When he touched a twig, he had to look and see whether or not he had hold of it.
The wires were pretty well down between him and his finger-ends.
All of which counted for little. There was the fire, snapping and crackling and promising
life with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice;
the thick German socks were like sheaths of iron halfway to the knees; and the moccasin
strings were like rods of steel all twisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a
moment he tugged with his numb fingers, then, realizing the folly of it, he drew his sheath
-knife.