312 FOUR YEARS IN THE WHITE NORTH [July 



Sunday, July 29ih. — Walked the length of the fiord to-day along 

 the top of the cHff, to determine height. The first elevation east of 

 house is 1,100 feet, the last at head of fiord I found to be 1,350 feet. 

 The terminal moraine back of the house is 350 feet high. 



Heavy wind from the south'ard, with whitecaps in the south. 



After dinner I climbed half-way to top of Thermometer Hill to 

 get photos of solifluction. 



In-ah-loo has started for Now-yard-ee, a walk of twenty-five miles, 

 to get an old stone lamp for me. 



The 31st arrived. On the morrow Captain Hanson and the 

 Danish ship Danmarh were expected. All eyes were turned toward 

 the south, each one hoping to be the first to descry the black trail 

 of telltale smoke. Everything was ready. The boxes were at the 

 edge of the bank, easily accessible for the boats. 



One more moving picture of our waterfall, I thought, and over 

 I went to secure it. When busily engaged in operating the ma- 

 chine, old In-ah-loo forded the river, and, stopping near me, in- 

 quired, "Has any one seen the ship?" 



"Not yet," I rephed, and without looking out to sea, continued 

 my work. 



She passed on into her tupik, wondering, possibly, if her eyes were 

 deceiving her; for there was the ship plainly visible far off in the 

 track of the sun, bucking a hard sea and wind. 



Within a few seconds this fact was startlingly evidenced by a 

 concerted yell from the excited natives. " Oo-me-ark-suah! Oo-me- 

 ark-suahr ("Big ship! Big ship!") echoed throughout the settle- 

 ment. 



With two masts only, and these wide apart, we thought at first 

 that she must be the S.S. Roosevelt, her rig having been lately changed 

 to fit her as a wrecker. 



Steaming northward, she passed from our view behind the harbor 

 hills. While impatiently awaiting her reappearance we were puz- 

 zled as to the import of the long-drawn wailing shriek of the siren 

 whistle. A salute.'^ A stranger and wanting a pilot? Or had she 

 struck on one of the numerous ledges bordering the entrance of the 

 fiord? Jumping into the punt, I was soon at the point and directly 

 under the bows of the big gray ship as she steamed into view. In- 

 stantly all resemblance to Peary's ship, the Roosevelt, disappeared. 

 Old, worn, and battered, and painted a dark battleship gray. On 

 her bow was the name — Neptune. Although well acquainted with 

 this veteran of Arctic work, I was deceived as to her identity by the 

 change in her general appearance, brought about by the removal of 

 her mainmast since our departure from home. 



