On the same occasion the expedition received from their Majesties the gift of a beautiful silver jug, which afterwards formed the most handsome ornament of our table on every festive occasion.

On June 3, early in the forenoon, the Fram left Christiania, bound at first for my home on Bundefjord.  The object of her call there was to take on board the house for the winter station, which stood ready built in the garden.  Our excellent carpenter Jorgen Stubberud had superintended the construction of this strong building.  It was now rapidly taken to pieces, and every single plank and beam was carefully numbered.  We had quite an imposing pile of materials to get aboard, where even before there was not much room to spare.  The bulk of it was stowed forward, and the remainder in the hold.

The more experienced among the members of the expedition were evidently absorbed in profound conjectures as to the meaning of this “observation house,” as the newspapers had christened it.  It may willingly be admitted that they had good reason for their speculations.  By an observation house is usually meant a comparatively simple construction, sufficient to provide the necessary shelter from wind and weather.  Our house, on the other hand, was a model of solidity, with three double walls, double roof and floor.  Its arrangements included ten inviting bunks, a kitchener, and a table; the latter, moreover, had a brand-new American-cloth cover.  “I can understand that they want to keep themselves warm when they’re making observations,” said Helmer Hanssen; “but what they want with a cloth on the table I can’t make out.”

On the afternoon of June 6 it was announced that everything was ready, and in the evening we all assembled at a simple farewell supper in the garden.  I took the opportunity of wishing good luck to every man in turn, and finally we united in a

“God preserve the King and Fatherland!”

Then we broke up.  The last man to get into the boat was the second in command; he arrived armed with a horseshoe.  In his opinion it is quite incredible what luck an old horseshoe will bring.  Possibly he is right.  Anyhow, the horseshoe was firmly nailed to the mast in the Fram’s saloon, and there it still hangs.

When on board, we promptly set to work to get up the anchor.  The Bolinder motor hummed, and the heavy cable rattled in through the hawse-hole.  Precisely at midnight the anchor let go of the bottom, and just as the Seventh of June[3], rolled in over us, the Fram stood out of Christiania Fjord for the third time.  Twice already had a band of stout-hearted men brought this ship back with honour after years of service.  Would it be vouchsafed to us to uphold this honourable tradition?  Such were, no doubt, the thoughts with which most of us were occupied as our vessel glided over the motionless fjord in the light summer night.  The start was made under the sign of the Seventh of June, and this was taken as a promising omen; but among