The month’s training that Dr. Wright gave his merry men was no sham one.
It was often carried out under considerable difficulties, too. For even in summer the weather is most unsettled. One year of open ice does not always follow another. There is the same uncertainty as regards the weather from day to day or week to week.
There were days when, owing to fogs or mists, though it was getting on now for mid-summer, hardly anything could be seen. One could hear the cries and screaming, or grunting, of the birds afar off, the splash of seals taking the water, or the whale in search of food, blowing off steam, but be unable to distinguish one tent from the other, while the Eskimo dogs loomed through the semi-darkness like bears, and the Shetland ponies took on the form of elephants, bar the trunks, and even Humpty Dumpty, for the time being, might have been mistaken for a giant in furs.
No matter, men and beasts must be hardened, and things went on as before.
When sledges did get lost in the fog high up, and across the plain, they had to feel their way as best they could, with the help of the pocket-compass.
The sledge parties were kept two days instead of one on the interior ice, and slept, of course, in their bags. No matter how high the wind or wild the weather, into those bags they must go. They were usually two-men bags, and these are the most comfortable.
Charlie and Walt could have knocked down a Patagonian before that month was over.
Here is an incident worth relating. One bitterly cold night, shortly after a couple of two-men bags were put down—Ingomar, by the way, had a bag for himself, and Curtis always found room for Collie in his—the boys stood talking to Dr. Wright for a few minutes. When he and Walt went to retire, lo, here was Nick in one bag, and Nora in another.
“Pray don’t turn me out,” pleaded Nick.
“Nor me,” whimpered Nora.