I had heard that Wisting also took part in this work, but he was not to be seen.  Where could he be?  My eyes involuntarily sought the curtain, behind which the humming sound was audible.  I was now ready to burst with curiosity.  At last the lashing question appears to be thrashed out, and my companion shows signs of moving on.  He leaves his lantern and goes up to the curtain.  “Wisting!” —­ “Yes!” The answer seems to come from a far distance.  The humming ceases, and the curtain is thrust aside.  Then I am confronted by the sight that has impressed me most of all on this eventful day.  There sits Wisting, in the middle of the Barrier, working a sewing-machine.  The temperature outside is now -60deg.F.  This seems to me to require some explanation; I slink through the opening to get a closer view.  Then —­ ugh!  I am met by a regular tropical blast.  I glance at the thermometer; it shows +50deg.  F. But how can this be?  Here he is, sewing in an ice-cellar at +50deg..  I was told in my school-days that ice melts at about +32deg..  If the same law is still in operation, he ought to be sitting in a shower-bath.  I go right in; the sewing-room is not large, about 6 feet each way.  Besides the sewing-machine —­ a modern treadle-machine —­ the room contains a number of instruments, compasses, and so forth, besides the large tent he is now working on.  But what interests me most is the way in which he circumvents the shower-bath.  I see it now; it is very cleverly contrived.  He has covered the roof and walls with tin and canvas, so arranged that all the melting ice goes the same way, and runs into a wash-tub that stands below.  In this manner he collects washing water, which is such a precious commodity in these regions —­ wily man!  I afterwards hear that nearly all the outfit for the Polar journey is being made in this little ice-cabin.  Well, with men like these I don’t think Amundsen will deserve any credit for reaching the Pole.  He ought to be thrashed if he doesn’t.

Now we have finished here, and must in all probability have seen everything.  My guide goes over to the wall where the clothing is lying and begins to rummage in it.  A clothing inspection, I say to myself; there’s no great fun in that.  I sit down on the pile of sledges by the opposite wall, and am going over in my mind all I have seen, when suddenly he thrusts his head forward —­ like a man who is going to make a dive —­ and disappears among the bundles of skins.  I jump up and make for the piles of clothing; I am beginning to feel quite lost in this mysterious world.  In my hurry I collide with Hanssen’s sledge, which falls off the table; he looks round furiously.  It is a good thing he could not see me; he looked like murder.  I squeeze in between the bundles of clothing, and what do I see?  Another hole in the wall; another low, dark passage.  I pluck up courage and plunge in.  This tunnel is rather higher than the other, and I can walk, bending double.  Fortunately, the light