THE NORTH POLE 



for anything that might happen. Had a new lead 

 formed directly across the sleeping platform of our igloo, 

 precipitating us into the icy water, we should not have 

 been surprised after the first shock of the cold bath, 

 but should have clambered out, scraping the water off 

 our fur garments, and made ready for the next move 

 on the part of our treacherous antagonist — the ice. 



Notwithstanding the extra fatigue and the pre- 

 carious position of our camp, this last march had put 

 us well beyond my record of three years before, prob- 

 ably 87° 12', so that I went to sleep with the satisfac- 

 tion of having at last beaten my own record, no matter 

 what the morrow might bring forth. 



The following day, March 29, was not a happy one 

 for us. Though we were all tired enough to rest, we 

 did not enjoy picnicking beside this arctic Phlegethon, 

 which, hour after hour, to the north, northeast, and 

 northwest, seemed to belch black smoke like a prairie 

 fire. So dense was this cloud caused by the condensa- 

 tion of the vapor and the reflection in it of the black 

 water below that we could not see the other shore of 

 the lead — if, indeed, it had a northern shore. As 

 far as the evidence of our senses went, we might be 

 encamped on the edge of that open polar sea which 

 myth-makers have imagined as forever barring the 

 way of man to the northern end of the earth's axis. 

 It was heart-breaking, but there was nothing to do but 

 wait. After breakfast we overhauled the sledges and 

 made a few repairs, dried out some of our garments 

 over the little oil lamps which we carried for that pur- 

 pose, and Bartlett made a sounding of 1,260 fathoms, 

 but found no bottom. He did not let all the line go out, 



