which made it warm and cosy.  At one end stood a Primus lamp with a large tin case over it, from which steam was issuing.  “How is it going?” —­ “All right.  We’re just bending the runners.  I’ve made a rough estimate of the weight, and find I can bring it down to 48 pounds.”  This seemed to me almost incredible.  Amundsen had told me on the way up this morning of the heavy sledges they had —­ 165 pounds each.  And now Bjaaland was going to bring them down to 48 pounds, less than a third of their original weight.  In the snow-walls of the room were fixed hooks and shelves, where the tools were kept.  Bjaaland’s carpenter’s bench was massive enough —­ cut out in the snow and covered with boards.  Along the opposite wall was another planing-bench, equally massive, but somewhat shorter than the first.  This was evidently Stubberud’s place.  He was not here to-day, but I could see that he was engaged in planing down the sledge cases and making them lighter.  One of them was finished; I leaned forward and looked at it.  On the top, where a little round aluminium lid was let in, was written:  “Original weight, 9 kilos; reduced weight, 6 kilos.”  I could understand what this saving of weight meant to men who were going on such a journey as these had before them.  One lamp provided all the illumination, but it gave an excellent light.  We left Bjaaland.  I felt sure that the sledging outfit was in the best of hands.

We then made our way into the pent-house, and here we met Stubberud.  He was engaged in cleaning up and putting things straight for the holiday.  All the steam that came out of the kitchen, when the door was opened, had condensed on the roof and walls in the form of rime several inches thick, and Stubberud was now clearing this off with a long broom.  Everything was going to be shipshape for Midwinter Eve; I could see that.  We went in.  Dinner was on, humming and boiling.  The kitchen floor was scrubbed clean, and the linoleum with which it was covered shone gaily.  It was the same in the living-room; everything was cleaned.  The linoleum on the floor and the American cloth on the table were equally bright.  The air was pure —­ absolutely pure.  All the bunks were made tidy, and the stools put in their places.  There was no one here.

“You have only seen a fraction of our underground palaces, but I thought we would take a turn in the loft first and see what it is like.  Follow me.”  We went out into the kitchen, and then up some steps fastened in the wall, and through the trap-door to the loft.  With the help of a little electric lamp, we were able to look about us.  The first thing that met my eyes was the library.  There stood the Framheim library, and it made the same good impression as everything else —­ books numbered from 1 to 80 in three shelves.  The catalogue lay by the side of them, and I cast my eye over it.  Here were books to suit all tastes; “Librarian, Adolf Henrik Lindstrom,” I read at the end.  So he was librarian, too-truly a many-sided man.  Long rows of cases stood here, full of whortleberry jam, cranberries, syrup, cream, sugar, and pickles.  In one corner I saw every sign of a dark-room; a curtain was hung up to keep the light off, and there was an array of developing-dishes, measuring-glasses, etc.  This loft was made good use of.  We had now seen everything, and descended again to continue our inspection.