But as Bennett was fumbling in the tin box that was lashed upon the number four sledge, looking for his notebook wherein he had begun his calculations for latitude, he was surprised to find a copy of the record he had left in the instrument box under the cairn at Cape Kammeni at the beginning of this southerly march.  He had supposed that this copy had been mislaid, and was not a little relieved to come across it now.  He read it through hastily, his mind reviewing again the incidents of the last few months.  Certain extracts of this record ran as follows: 

“Arctic steamer Freja, on ice off Cape Kammeni, New Siberian Islands, 76 deg. 10 min. north latitude, 150 deg. 40 min. east longitude, July 12, 1891....  We accordingly froze the ship in on the last day of September, 1890, and during the following winter drifted with the pack in a northwesterly direction....  On Friday, July 10, 1891, being in latitude 76 deg. 10 min. north; longitude 150 deg. 10 min. east, the Freja was caught in a severe nip between two floes and was crushed, sinking in about two hours.  We abandoned her, saving 200 days’ provisions and all necessary clothing, instruments, etc....

“I shall now attempt a southerly march over the ice to Kolyuchin Bay by way of Wrangel Island, where provisions have been cached, hoping to fall in with the relief ships or steam whalers on the way.  Our party consists of the following twelve persons:  ...  All well with the exception of Mr. Ferriss, the chief engineer, whose left hand has been badly frostbitten.  No scurvy in the party as yet.  We have eighteen Ostiak dogs with us in prime condition, and expect to drag our ship’s boat upon sledges.

“Ward Bennett, Commanding Freja Arctic Exploring Expedition.”

Bennett returned this copy of the record to its place in the box, and stood for a moment in the centre of the tent, his head bent to avoid the ridge-pole, looking thoughtfully upon the ground.

Well, so far all had gone right—­no scurvy, provisions in plenty.  The dogs were in good condition, his men cheerful, trusting in him as in a god, and surely no leader could wish for a better lieutenant and comrade than Richard Ferriss—­but this hummocky ice—­these pressure-ridges which the expedition had met the day before.  Instead of turning at once to his ciphering Bennett drew the hood of the wolfskin coat over his head, buttoned a red flannel mask across his face, and, raising the flap of the tent, stepped outside.

Under the lee of the tent the dogs were sleeping, moveless bundles of fur, black and white, perceptibly steaming.  The three great McClintock sledges, weighted down with the Freja’s boats and with the expedition’s impedimenta, lay where they had been halted the evening before.

In the sky directly in front of Bennett as he issued from the tent three moons, hooped in a vast circle of nebulous light, shone roseate through a fine mist, while in the western heavens streamers of green, orange, and vermilion light, immeasurably vast, were shooting noiselessly from horizon to zenith.