1916] TO KING CHRISTIAN ISLAND 229 



hunting is a pastime; polar-bear hunting is sport. And 

 to see that magnificent, yellowish-white body, every 

 movement of which denotes agility and strength, sway- 

 ing gently back and forth on a snow-white pedestal, 

 holding off a pack of dogs, is one of the sights of a 

 lifetime. All honor to the "tiger of the north," every 

 inch a fighter. 



When we blocked the door of our snow house that 

 night well to the west of Cape Sabine, our dogs were 

 rounded out with fresh meat, my Eskimos were antici- 

 pating a delicious supper, and all were happy with the 

 thought of to-morrow's work. There is a world-wide 

 gap between a full stomach and an empty one. 



Thirty below to-night, a good day to-morrow. 



The next day, as we dashed rapidly along over the 

 smooth ice on the south side of Bache Peninsula, the 

 question uppermost in our minds was, "Shall we get 

 seals at the mouth of Flagler Bay.?" "Yes, we cer- 

 tainly should," they all declared. How did they know 

 that there would be a pool of open water far up at the 

 head of a fiord, seventy-five miles from the sea.? They 

 drew their conclusions from a perfect knowledge of 

 weather conditions — often a matter of life or death with 

 these Northern people. In 1914 we found the ice open; 

 result, seals which saved the lives of our dogs. In 1915 

 it was solid from shore to shore. 



Sure enough, as we wound our way through the Wey- 

 precht Islands we soon descried the water glittering in 

 the sun like a bed of molten silver. The Eskimos 

 hitched their dogs securely a hundred yards distant, 

 loaded the magazines of their rifles, carefully coiled their 

 harpoon-lines, and were off to the edge of the ice, where 

 they took up their positions, surrounding the pool. 



