298 A DAY AT FRAMHEIM 



out, followed by the rest of them. That must be 

 Helmer Hanssen, who was on the Gjoa; he looks as if 

 he could handle a rope. Ah, and there we have Olav 

 Olavson Bjaaland! I could have cried aloud for joy- 

 my old friend from Holmenkollen. The great long- 

 distance runner, you remember. And he managed 

 the jump, too --50 metres, I think -- standing. If 

 Amundsen has a few like him, he will get to the 

 Pole all right. And there comes Stubberud, the man 

 the Aftenpost said was so clever at double-entry book- 

 keeping. As I see him now, he does not give me the 

 impression of being a book-keeper but one can't tell. 

 And here come Hassel, Johansen, and Prestrud; now 

 they are all up, and will soon begin the day's work. 



" Stubberud!" It is Lindstrom putting his head in 

 at the door. "If you want any hot cakes, you must 

 get some air down." Stubberud merely smiles; he 

 looks as if he felt sure of getting them, all the same. 

 What was it he talked about? Hot cakes? They 

 must be connected with the beautiful dough and the 

 delicate, seductive smell of cooking that is now pene- 

 trating through the crack of the door. Stubberud is 

 going, and I must go with him. Yes, as I thought- 

 there stands Lindstrom in all his glory before the 

 range, brandishing the weapon with which he turns the 

 cakes; and in a pan lie three brownish-yellow buck- 

 wheat cakes quivering with the heat of the fire. 

 Heavens, how hungry it made me! I take up my 



