H4 SPITSBERGEN chap, x 



canvas cover at various times and in many places, was now 

 coated with Arctic ooze. 



When Bucking-horse Camp was pitched and cooking 

 well in hand, after three hours' toil in and about the ford, 

 Garwood, who had done the lion's share, told us of a 

 certain miserable day spent geologising in the North of 

 England. He was awaiting a train in Appleby refreshment 

 room, when a dripping drover entered. " Give me some 

 hot water, Miss," he said to the barmaid, "and some sugar 

 and plenty of brandy. I'm sick of this blooming world." 

 We were all sick of this blooming world that night, but 

 there was no consoling bar at hand, and water took long to 

 boil in the rising wind. Ultimately all was comfortably 

 arranged. We retired to rest with the dark outlines of 

 various drying garments visible through the semi-transparent 

 roof of our tent, and looking like so many misshapen torsoes 

 and amputated limbs. 



Cold blew the wind through the hours of rest, and 

 miserable was the chill and cloudy weather to which we 

 awoke. I had journals to write and a tent to mend. The 

 others went forth to look for birds, fossils, and especially 

 for a reindeer. Writing in camp was frigid work. I re- 

 treated into a sleeping-bag for warmth. Time passed, and 

 work was done, but without incident or satisfaction. The 

 darning of stockings is doubtless an occupation not without 

 charm, but to lie on your face in a freezing wind, and drive 

 a packing-needle through sail-cloth and rubber sheeting 

 (when it does not go into your hand), is a wholly disagree- 

 able employment. It suggested an inquiry to which no 

 solution was apparent: Why is it so much easier to drive 

 the blunt head of the needle firmly into the hard object 

 you use in place of thimble, than to force the sharp point 

 through the relatively soft material it is intended to pierce ? 

 The fact is indisputable, the cause obscure. Another curious 



