Blinded with tears, I turned and for the first time in many blissful weeks, gave the old, old, command, "Mush!"
On February twelfth, we had reached eighty-five. Progress in the cold and dark was infinitely slower than it had been during the warm northward journey. The absence of mosquitoes was a compensation but on the whole travel was much more arduous. The mean temperature from Jan. 1st to Feb. 10th was 68° below, the meanest I have ever encountered.
But I was in no hurry. We were very comfortable on our admirable craft and a careful reckoning of supplies gave me no cause for alarm. According to my list, we should be able to hold out for another year if worst came to worst.
It came to worse than that.
My rude awakening came on February 17th.
It had been a wretched day with alternating snow and blizzard gales. The thermometers had gone their limit (100 below) and would have gone further if they had been longer. Cooped up in the cabin, worn with toil, frazzled with the bickering of the card players to whom I had given one week of grace for final rounds of roodles, my nerves were taut and jumpy. I ordered Swank to step aft and fetch me a plug of A-P. He was gone an unconscionable time and when he returned his face was blanched with terror.
"The bin's empty, Sir," he reported.
Empty!
I stared at him in amazement. Far into the night I went over my bills of lading promising myself a thorough stock-taking in the morning.