The first morning out, Stavenger, on the coast of southern Norway, hove in sight amid a cluster of snow-clad hills. We had little time for this small town, and after an hour's stop the Jupiter turned her nose towards the north and resumed her journey. At Bergen I tramped down the gangway with my fellow passengers of the steerage and spent a few hours, during the time our ship was in the harbour, roaming the streets. I found my way in and out among the alleys of the fishy-smelling fish markets and ate some food which I bought, taking advantage of land prices. In Trondhjem I made my way through a snow storm to the Cathedral, returning to the ship by way of the main street, where I laid in a supply of cheese and bread.
The trip along the Norwegian coast is a beautiful one, and our boat slowly wound through the maze of narrow channels and picturesque fjords. For a few hours we would be hemmed in by an endless number of little snow-covered isles on one side, with the abrupt and rugged cliffs of the Norwegian mainland on the other. In a short time we would steam out into the open ocean. The first morning out from Trondhjem we crossed the Arctic Circle. A feeling of intense loneliness came over me and I almost imagined that I was going to another world. The snow-covered mountains and islands, the sharpness of the cold, the absence of any habitations along the coast, the incessant and silent plunging of the ship, the dreary surroundings of the steerage and the emptiness of my stomach, all filled me with the most lonely and forlorn thoughts. Where was I going and what put it into my head to wander to this out-of-the-way corner of the earth?
The problem of food had become a serious one. My money had given out and the supply of provisions I had laid in at Trondhjem had all been eaten. The steerage steward had taken a dislike to me, for I had rebelled at the small portions he dealt out in the beginning of the trip, when I had money with which to pay. I tried to make up to him in the hope of a "handout," but instead I nearly got a "kick-out." There was nothing to do but fast until I reached my journey's end.
Late one afternoon, couched in the centre of a vast desert of snow, a small village appeared. Our boat directed her nose towards this dreary and lonesome-looking settlement, and in a short time was alongside the pier. It was Tromso. How glad I was! As soon as the lines were tied and the ship made fast I descended the gangway and set out to find my friend Turner. I didn't have a cent of money and hadn't eaten for two days.
A RESIDENT OF THE ARCTIC ZONE
On alighting from the ship I took a deep breath of the fishy atmosphere and proceeded up the street lugging my two bags. I was now three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, and the island town of Tromso was buried in eight feet of snow. I had walked barely ten yards when my feet flew out from under me and I came down with a fearful thud. My two grips fell from my hands and slid about on the slippery snow of the packed street like drops of quicksilver. I gathered my meagre belongings together and started again. Ten yards more—and I fell in the same undignified manner. I thought the eight thousand inhabitants of Tromso were gazing at me, as the crowds on the sidewalks congregated to see the drunken foreigner perform. I tried again to make some progress, but it seemed impossible for me to keep my equilibrium. I nearly became discouraged. A waxed floor is a ploughed field compared to the winter smoothness of a Tromso street.
I found Turner in his room at the Grand Hotel and we were very glad to see one another, for we had not seen each other for four years. To meet up here in the frozen north made a reunion of two Americans especially cordial.