Now it is already half-past eight, it must be nearly bed-time.  The feast has lasted long enough, with food, drink, and music.  Then they all get on their feet, and there is a cry of “Bow and arrows.”  Now, I say to myself, as I withdraw into the corner where the clothes are hanging —­ now the alcohol is beginning to take effect.  It is evident that something extraordinarily interesting is going to take place, as they are all so active.  One of them goes behind the door and fetches out a little cork target, and another brings out of his bunk a box of darts.  So it is dart-throwing —­ the children must be amused.  The target is hung up on the door of the kitchen leading to the pent-house, and the man who is to throw first takes up his position at the end of the table at a distance of three yards.  And now the shooting competition begins, amid laughter and noise.  There are marksmen of all kinds, good, bad, and indifferent.  Here comes the champion —­ one can see that by the determined way in which he raises the dart and sends it flying; his will, no doubt, be the top score.  That is Stubberud; of the five darts he throws, two are in the bull’s-eye and three close to it.  The next is Johansen; he is not bad, either, but does not equal the other’s score.  Then comes Bjaaland; I wonder whether he is as smart at this game as he is on ski?  He places himself at the end of the table, like the others, but takes a giant’s stride forward.  He is a leery one, this; now he is not more than a yard and a half from the target.  He throws well; the darts describe a great round arch.  This is what is known as throwing “with a high trajectory,” and it is received with great applause.  The trajectory turns out to be too high, and all his darts land in the wall above the door.  Hassel throws with “calculation.”  What he calculates it is not easy to understand.  Not on hitting the target, apparently; but if his calculations have to do with the kitchen-door, then they are more successful.  Whether Amundsen “calculates” or not makes very little difference; his are all misses in any case.  Wisting’s form is the same.  Prestrud is about half-way 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 Lindstrom 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 pine-wood torches.