the heels of his hands.

After some manipulation he managed to get the bunch between the heels of his mittened hands.
In this fashion he carried it to his mouth. The ice crackled and snapped when by a violent
effort he opened his mouth. He drew the lower jaw in, curled the upper lip out of the way,
and scraped the bunch with his upper teeth in order to separate a match. He succeeded in
getting one, which he dropped on his lap. He was no better off. He could not pick it up.
Then he devised a way. He picked it up in his teeth and scratched it on his leg. Twenty
times he scratched before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamed he held it with his
teeth to the birch bark. But the burning brimstone went up his nostrils and into his lungs,
causing him to cough spasmodically. The match fell into the snow and went out.
The old-timer an Sulphur Creek was right, he thought in the moment of controlled despair
that ensued after fifty below, a man should travel with a partner. He beat his hands, but
failed in exciting any sensation. Suddenly he bared both hands, removing the mittens with
his teeth. He caught the whole bunch between the heels of his hands. His arm muscles not
being frozen enabled him to press the hand-heels tightly against the matches. Then he
scratched the bunch along his leg It flared into flame, seventy sulphur matches at once!
There was no wind to blow them out He kept his head to one side to escape the strangling
fumes, and held the blazing bunch to the birth bark. As he so held it, he became aware of
sensation in his hand. His flesh was burning. He could smell it. Deep down below the surface
he could feel it. The sensation developed into pain that grew acute. And still he endured,
it holding the flame of the matches clumsily to the bark that would not light readily
because his own burning hands were in the way, absorbing most of the flame.