to have a fairly serviceable whip; the others did not matter so much, though it was rather awkward for them.  In some way or other he provided himself with a whip that answered his purpose.  I saw one of the others armed with a tent-pole, and he used it till we reached Framheim.  At first the dogs were much afraid of this monster of a whip, but they soon found out that it was no easy matter to reach them with the pole, and then they did not care a scrap for it.

At last everything seemed to be in order, and then we only had to get the dogs up and in their places.  Several of them were so indifferent that they had allowed themselves to be completely snowed under, but one by one we got them out and put them on their feet.  Thor, however, refused absolutely.  It was impossible to get him to stand up; he simply lay and whined.  There was nothing to be done but to put an end to him, and as we had no firearms, it had to be done with an axe.  It was quite successful; less would have killed him.  Wisting took the carcass on his sledge to take it to the next camp, and there cut it up.  The day was bitterly cold —­ fog and snow with a southerly breeze; temperature, -14.8deg.  F. We were lucky enough to pick up our old tracks of the southern journey, and could follow them.  Lurven, Wisting’s best dog, fell down on the march, and died on the spot.  He was one of those dogs who had to work their hardest the whole time; he never thought of shirking for a moment; he pulled and pulled until he died.

All sentimental feeling had vanished long ago; nobody thought of giving Lurven the burial he deserved.  What was left of him, skin and bones, was cut up and divided among his companions.

On March 16 we advanced seventeen miles; temperature, -29.2deg.  F. Jens, one of my gallant “Three Musketeers,” had been given a ride all day on Wisting’s sledge; he was too weak to walk any longer.  Thor was to have been divided among his companions that evening, but, on account of the abscess in his chest, we changed our minds.  He was put into an empty case and buried.  During the night we were wakened by a fearful noise.  The dogs were engaged in a fierce fight, and it was easy to guess from their howls that it was all about food.  Wisting, who always showed himself quickest in getting out of the bag, was instantly on the spot, and then it was seen that they had dug up Thor, and were now feasting on him.  It could not be said that they were hard to please in the way of food.  Associations of ideas are curious things; “sauce hollandaise” suddenly occurred to my mind.  Wisting buried the carcass again, and we had peace for the rest of the night.