242 DEPOT JOURNEYS 



reached Framheim. At first the dogs were much 

 afraid of this monster of a whip, but they soon found 

 out that it was no easy matter to reach them with the 

 pole, and then they did not care a scrap for it. 



At last everything seemed to be in order, and then 

 we only had to get the dogs up and in their places. 

 Several of them were so indifferent that they had 

 allowed themselves to be completely snowed under, but 

 one by one we got them out and put them on their 

 feet. Thor, however, refused absolutely. It was im- 

 possible to get him to stand up; he simply lay and 

 whined. There was nothing to be done but to put an 

 end to him, and as we had no firearms, it had to be 

 done with an axe. It was quite successful; less would 

 have killed him. Wisting took the carcass on his 

 sledge to take it to the next camp, and there cut it 

 up. The day was bitterly cold fog and snow with a 

 southerly breeze; temperature, -14 '8 F. We were 

 lucky enough to pick up our old tracks of the southern 

 journey, and could follow them. Lurven, Wisting's 

 best dog, fell down on the march, and died on the 

 spot. He was one of those dogs who had to work their 

 hardest the whole time; he never thought of shirking 

 for a moment ; he pulled and pulled until he died. 



All sentimental feeling had vanished long ago; 

 nobody thought of giving Lurven the burial he de- 

 served. What was left of him, skin and bones, was cut 

 up and divided among his companions. 



