willful waste makes woeful want

He’s not using them any more, is he? Hickey knocks on the sole of one boot with the palm of his hand, tossing out the gravel, and rolls the leather between his gloved fingers. Even in death there’s a fine distinction of rank to be observed. The dead man is already rancid, rotting from both ends, but they’ve buried him with his best boots on. His shirt is fine linen stained with sweat and shit and blood. No pockets to turn out, no rings on his fingers. They’ve buried Commander Fitzjames with his snow goggles. The man won’t be using them any time soon.

Tozer is already filling in the shallow pit with stones. Somebody made this grave nice and smart, but they weren’t discreet about it – the Esquimaux don’t bury their dead, and the disturbed ground could hardly be anything else, now, could it? A cache of blue serge coats and Goldner’s cans? On the surface, the corpse will draw out the flesh-eaters – which would be a great convenience if their group weren’t moving on by morning. Catch a sea-bird, pick the flesh from its bones. Take a few pot-shots at the foxes, make himself a nice furry collar.