a shining example to the team.  But during the last week he had quite fallen away, and on our arrival at the Pole there was only a shadow of the old Helge left.  He was only a drag on the others, and did absolutely no work.  One blow on the skull, and Helge had ceased to live.  “What is death to one is food to another,” is a saying that can scarcely find a better application than these dog meals.  Helge was portioned out on the spot, and within a couple of hours there was nothing left of him but his teeth and the tuft at the end of his tail.  This was the second of our eighteen dogs that we had lost.  The Major, one of Wisting’s fine dogs, left us in 88)deg) 25’ S., and never returned.  He was fearfully worn out, and must have gone away to die.  We now had sixteen dogs left, and these we intended to divide into two equal teams, leaving Bjaaland’s sledge behind.

Of course, there was a festivity in the tent that evening —­ not that champagne corks were popping and wine flowing —­ no, we contented ourselves with a little piece of seal meat each, and it tasted well and did us good.  There was no other sign of festival indoors.  Outside we heard the flag flapping in the breeze.  Conversation was lively in the tent that evening, and we talked of many things.  Perhaps, too, our thoughts sent messages home of what we had done.

Everything we had with us had now to be marked with the words “South Pole” and the date, to serve afterwards as souvenirs.  Wisting proved to be a first-class engraver, and many were the articles he had to mark.  Tobacco —­ in the form of smoke —­ had hitherto never made its appearance in the tent.  From time to time I had seen one or two of the others take a quid, but now these things were to be altered.  I had brought with me an old briar pipe, which bore inscriptions from many places in the Arctic regions, and now I wanted it marked “South Pole.”  When I produced my pipe and was about to mark it, I received an unexpected gift Wisting offered me tobacco for the rest of the journey.  He had some cakes of plug in his kit-bag, which he would prefer to see me smoke.  Can anyone grasp what such an offer meant at such a spot, made to a man who, to tell the truth, is very fond of a smoke after meals?  There are not many who can understand it fully.  I accepted the offer, jumping with joy, and on the way home I had a pipe of fresh, fine-cut plug every evening.  Ah! that Wisting, he spoiled me entirely.  Not only did he give me tobacco, but every evening —­ and I must confess I yielded to the temptation after a while, and had a morning smoke as well —­ he undertook the disagreeable work of cutting the plug and filling my pipe in all kinds of weather.