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between the good shots and the bad. Hanssen throws like a professional, slinging his dart with great force. He evidently thinks he is hunting walrus. All the scores are carefully entered in a book, and prizes will be given later on.

Meanwhile Lindstr�m is playing patience; his day’s work is now done. But, besides his cards, he is much interested in what is going on round the target, and puts in a good word here and there. Then he gets up with a determined look; he has one more duty to perform. This consists of changing the light from the big lamp under the ceiling to two small lamps, and the reason for the change is that the heat of the big lamp would be too strongly felt in the upper bunks. This operation is a gentle hint that the time has come for certain people to turn in. The room looks dark now that the great sun under the ceiling is extinguished; the two lamps that are now alight are good enough, but one seems, nevertheless, to have made a retrograde step towards the days of pinewood torches.

By degrees, then, the vikings began to retire to rest. My description of the day’s life at Framheim would be incomplete if I did not include this scene in it. Lindstr�m’s chief pride, I had been told, was that he was always the first man in bed; he would willingly sacrifice a great deal to hold this record. As a rule, he had no difficulty in fulfilling his desire, as nobody tried to be before him; but this evening it was otherwise. Stubberud was far advanced with his undressing when Lindstr�m came in, and, seeing a chance at last of being “first in bed,” at once challenged the cook. Lindstr�m, who did not quite grasp the situation, accepted the challenge, and then the race began, and was followed by the others with great excitement. Now Stubberud is ready, and is just going to jump into his bunk, which is over Lindstr�m’s, when he suddenly feels himself clutched by the leg and held back. Lindstr�m hangs on to the leg with all his force, crying out, in the most pitiable voice: “Wait a bit, old man, till I’m undressed too!” It reminded me rather of the man who was going to fight, and called out: “Wait till I get a hold of you!” But the other was not to be persuaded; he was determined to win. Then Lindstr�m let go, tore off his braces — he had no time for more — and dived head first into his bunk. Stubberud tried to protest; this was not fair, he was not undressed, and so on.

“That doesn’t matter,” replied the fat man; “I was first, all the same.”

The scene was followed with great amusement and shouts of encouragement, and ended in a storm of applause when Lindstr�m disappeared into his bunk with his clothes on. But that was not the end of the business, for his leap into the bunk was followed by a fearful crash, to which no one paid any attention in the excitement of the moment, himself least of all. But now the consequences appeared. The shelf along the side of his bunk, on which he kept a large assortment of things, had fallen down, and filled the bunk with rifles, ammunition, gramophone-discs, tool-boxes, sweetmeat-boxes, pipes, tins of tobacco, ash-trays, boxes of matches, etc., and there was no room left for the man himself. He had to get out again, and his defeat was doubly hard. With shame he acknowledged Stubberud as the victor; “but,” he added, “you shan’t be first another time.” One by one the others turned in; books were produced — here and there a pipe as well — and in this way the last hour was passed. At eleven o’clock precisely the lamps were put out, and the day was at an end.

Soon after, my host goes to the door, and I follow him out. I had told him I had to leave again this evening, and he is going to see me off. “I’ll take you as far as the depot,” he says; “the rest of the way you can manage by yourself.” The weather has improved considerably, but it is dark — horribly dark. “So that we may find the way more easily,” he says, “I’ll take my trio. If they don’t see the way, they’ll smell it out.” Having let loose the three dogs, who evidently wonder what the meaning of it may be, he puts a lantern on a stack of timber — to show him the way back, I suppose — and we go off. The dogs are evidently accustomed to go this way, for they set off at once in the direction of the depot.

“Yes,” says my companion, “it’s not to be wondered at that they know the way. They have gone it every day — once at least, often two or three times — since we came here. There are three of us who always take our daily walk in this direction — Bjaaland, Stubberud, and I. As you saw this morning, those two went out at half-past eight. They did that so as to be back to work at nine. We have so much to do that we can’t afford to lose any time. So they take their walk to the depot and back; at nine I generally do the same. The others began the winter with the same good resolution; they were all so enthusiastic for a morning walk. But the enthusiasm didn’t last long, and now we three are the only enthusiasts left. But, short as the way is — about 650 yards — we should not venture to go without those marks that you saw, and without our dogs. I have often hung out a lantern, too; but when it is as cold as this evening, the paraffin freezes and the light goes out. Losing one’s way here might be a very serious matter, and I don’t want to run the risk of it.

” Here we have the first mark-post; we were lucky to come straight upon it. The dogs are on ahead, making for the depot. Another reason for being very careful on the way to the depot is that there is a big hole, 20 feet deep, just by a hummock on that slope where, you remember, the last flag stands. If one missed one’s way and fell into it, one might get hurt.” We passed close to the second mark. “The next two marks are more difficult to hit off — they are so low; and I often wait and call the dogs to me to find the way — as I am going to do now, for instance. It is impossible to see anything unless you come right on it, so we must wait and let the dogs help us. I know exactly the number of paces between each mark, and when I have gone that number, I stop and first examine the ground close by. If that is no good, I whistle for the dogs, who come at once. Now you’ll see” — a long whistle —

“it won’t be long before they are here. I can hear them already.” He was right; the dogs came running out of the darkness straight towards us. “To let them see that we want to find the way to the depot, we must begin to walk on.” We did so. As soon as the dogs saw this, they went forward again, but this time at a pace that allowed us to keep up with them at a trot, and soon after we were at the last mark.

“As you see, my lantern over at the camp is just going out, so I hope you will excuse my accompanying you farther. You know your way, anyhow.”

With these words we parted, and my host went back, followed by the faithful trio, whilst I …

CHAPTER IX The End of the Winter

After Midwinter Day the time began to pass even more quickly than before. The darkest period was over, and the sun was daily drawing nearer. In the middle of the darkest time, Hassel came in one morning and announced that Else had eight puppies. Six of these were ladies, so their fate was sealed at once; they were killed and given to their elder relations, who appreciated them highly. It could hardly be seen that they chewed them at all; they went down practically whole. There could be no doubt of their approval, as the next day the other two had also disappeared.

The weather conditions we encountered down here surprised us greatly. In every quarter of the Antarctic regions of which we had any information, the conditions had always proved very unsettled. On the Belgica, in the drift-ice to the west of Graham Land, we always had rough, unpleasant weather. Nordenskj�ld’s stay in the regions to the east of the same land gave the same report — storm after storm the whole time. And from the various English expeditions that have visited McMurdo Sound we hear of continual violent winds. Indeed, we know now that while we were living on the Barrier in the most splendid weather — calms or light breezes — Scott at his station some four hundred miles to the west of us was troubled by frequent storms, which greatly hindered his work.

I had expected the temperature to remain high, as throughout the winter we could very clearly see the dark sky over the sea. Whenever the state of the air was favourable, the dark, heavy water-sky was visible in a marked degree, leaving no doubt that a large extent of Ross Sea was open the whole year round. Nevertheless, the temperature went very low, and without doubt the mean temperature shown by our observations for the year is the lowest that has ever been recorded. Our lowest temperature, on August 13, 1911, was -74.2�F. For five months of the year we were able to record temperatures below -58�F. The temperature rose with every wind, except the south-west; with that it more usually went down.

We observed the aurora australis many times, but only a few of its appearances were specially powerful. They were of all possible forms, though the form of ribbon-like bands seemed to be commonest. Most of the auror� were multicoloured — red and green.

My hypothesis of the solidity of the Barrier — that is, of its resting upon underlying land — seems to be confirmed at all points by our observations during our twelve months’ stay on it. In the course of the winter and spring the pack-ice is forced up against the Barrier into pressure-ridges of as much as 40 feet in height. This took place only about a mile and a quarter from our hut, without our noticing its effect in the slightest degree. In my opinion, if this Barrier had been afloat, the effect of the violent shock which took place at its edge would not merely have been noticeable, but would have shaken our house. While building the house, Stubberud and Bjaaland heard a loud noise a long way off, but could feel nothing. During our whole stay we never heard a sound or felt a movement on this spot. Another very good proof seems to be afforded by the large theodolite that Prestrud used. It would take next to nothing to disturb its level — a slight change of temperature might be enough. So delicate an instrument would have soon shown an inclination if the Barrier had been afloat.

The day we entered the bay for the first time, a small piece of its western cape broke away. During the spring the drift-ice pressed in an insignificant part of one of the many points

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