The matches were perfectly dry, for
he carried them in a small, closely corked bottle. He could not
understand it in the least. He struck another. It flashed, but like the
others went out.
Then he suddenly remembered that Skipper Ed had once said fire would not
burn in air from which the oxygen had been taken, for then the air would
be "dead," and that a person would exhaust all the air in a close room
in a short time, and therefore rooms should be well ventilated. And with
this he realized what had happened. His air had been cut off and all
that remained was dead.
The drift had covered his den to a great depth while he slept, and the
wind had packed the snow so hard that the air could no longer circulate
through it.
It was necessary that an opening be made quickly or he would smother,
and this he set about to do with all his might. He removed some of the
sticks with which he had closed the doorway, and using one of them as a
tool dug away the snow, until light at last began to filter through, and
he knew it was day, and presently he broke the outer crust of the drift.
A flood of pure but bitterly cold air poured in upon him, and he
breathed deeply and felt refreshed.
He had dug his opening straight out from the place which he had arranged
for a door, and he now made it large enough to permit the passage of his
body as he crawled upon hands and knees.
The storm had in no degree abated. The velocity of the wind was so
terrific that had Bobby not stood in the shelter of the drift-covered
bowlder he could not have kept upon his feet.
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