“Stubberud!” It is Lindstrom putting his head in at the door.  “If you want any hot cakes, you must get some air down.”  Stubberud merely smiles; he looks as if he felt sure of getting them, all the same.  What was it he talked about?  Hot cakes?  They must be connected with the beautiful dough and the delicate, seductive smell of cooking that is now penetrating through the crack of the door.  Stubberud is going, and I must go with him.  Yes, as I thought —­ there stands Lindstrom in all his glory before the range, brandishing the weapon with which he turns the cakes; and in a pan lie three brownish-yellow buckwheat cakes quivering with the heat of the fire.  Heavens, how hungry it made me!  I take up my old position, so as not to be in anyone’s way, and watch Lindstrom.  He’s the man —­ he produces hot cakes with astonishing dexterity; it almost reminds one of a juggler throwing up balls, so rapid and regular is the process.  The way he manipulates the cake-slice shows a fabulous proficiency.  With the skimmer in one hand he dumps fresh dough into the pan, and with the cake-slice in the other he removes those that are done, all at the same time; it seems almost more than human!

There comes Wisting, salutes, and holds out a little tin mug.  Flattered by the honour, the cook fills his mug with boiling water, and he disappears into the pent-house.  But this interruption puts Lindstrom off his jugglery with the hot cakes-one of them rolls down on to the floor.  This fellow is extraordinarily phlegmatic; I can’t make out whether he missed that cake or not.  I believe the sigh that escaped him at the same instant meant something like:  “Well, we must leave some for the dogs.”

And now they all come in single file with their little mugs, and get each a drop of boiling water.  I get up, interested in this proceeding, and slip out with one of them into the pent-house and so on to the Barrier.  You will hardly believe me, when I tell you what I saw —­ all the Polar explorers standing in a row, brushing their teeth!  What do you say to that?  So they are not such absolute pigs, after all.  There was a scent of Stomatol everywhere.

Here comes Amundsen.  He has evidently been out taking the meteorological observations, as he holds the anemometer in one hand.  I follow him through the passage, and, when no one is looking, take the opportunity of slapping him on the shoulder and saying “A grand lot of boys.”  He only smiled; but a smile may often say more than many words.  I understood what it meant; he had known that a long while and a good deal more.

It was now eight o’clock.  The door from the kitchen to the room was left wide open, and the warmth streamed in and mixed with the fresh air that Stubberud had now forced to come down the right way.  Now it was pleasanter inside —­ fresh, warm air everywhere.  Then came a very interesting scene.  As the tooth-brushing gentlemen returned, they had to guess the temperature, one by one.