the coolest air in the world and talked about the weather, and I could take my oath he had not been outside the door that morning.  “How’s it getting on to-day —­ is it coming?” Amundsen looks with interest at the mysterious bowl.  Lindstrom takes another peep under the cloth.  “Yes, it’s coming at last; but I’ve had to give it a lot to-day.” —­ " Yes, it feels like it,” answers the other, and goes out.  My interest is now divided between “it " in the bowl and Amundsen’s return, with the meteorological discussion that will ensue.  It is not long before he reappears; evidently the temperature outside is not inviting.  “Let’s hear again, my friend " —­ he seats himself on the camp-stool beside which I am sitting on the floor —­ “what kind of weather did you say it was?” I prick up my ears; there is going to be fun.  “It was an easterly breeze and thick as a wall, when I was out at six o’clock.” —­ “Hm! then it has cleared remarkably quickly.  It’s a dead calm now, and quite clear.” —­ “Ah, that’s just what I should have thought!  I could see it was falling light, and it was getting brighter in the east.”  He got out of that well.  Meanwhile it was again the turn of the bowl.  It was taken down from the shelf over the range and put on the bench; the various cloths were removed one by one until it was left perfectly bare.  I could not resist any longer; I had to get up and look.  And indeed it was worth looking at.  The bowl was filled to the brim with golden-yellow dough, full of air-bubbles, and showing every sign that he had got it to rise.  Now I began to respect Lindstrom; he was a devil of a fellow.  No confectioner in our native latitudes could have shown a finer dough.  It was now 7.25; everything seems to go by the clock here.

Lindstrom threw a last tender glance at his bowl, picked up a little bottle of spirit, and went into the next room.  I saw my chance of following him in.  There was not going to be any fun out there with Amundsen, who was sitting on the camp-stool half asleep.  In the other room it was pitch-dark, and an atmosphere —­ no, ten atmospheres at least!  I stood still in the doorway and breathed heavily.  Lindstrom stumbled forward in the darkness, felt for and found the matches.  He struck one, and lighted a spirit-holder that hung beneath a hanging lamp.  There was not much to be seen by the light of the spirit flame; one could still only guess.  Hear too, perhaps.  They were sound sleepers, those boys.  One grunted here and another there; they were snoring in every corner.  The spirit might have been burning for a couple of minutes, when Lindstrom had to set to work in a hurry.  He was off just as the flame went out, leaving the room in black darkness.  I heard the spirit bottle and the nearest stool upset, and what followed I don’t know, as I was unfamiliar with the surroundings —­ but there was a good deal of it.  I heard a click —­ had no idea what it was —­ and then the same movement back again to the lamp.