chap, x THE TRIDENT 147 



on the way to the east coast. Sitting silent in the tent, one 

 could hear from time to time the whirr of their strong 

 wings as they passed close overhead. 



I brewed a cup of tea — no brief task when water has to 

 be fetched from a snow-hole, into which it but slowly 

 trickles — the lamp filled with spirit, cup cleaned, boiling 

 brought about with the normal deliberation of the watched 

 pot, the compound strained, milk and sugar dislodged from 

 their hiding-places, and all by one pair of hands, within the 

 confined limits of our shoulder-high tent. In half-an-hour 

 the w T ork was done. Then came the preparation of a 

 mighty supper. Into the pot went the shredded fragments 

 of two onions, a handful of dried vegetables, odds and ends 

 of arrowroot and oatmeal, a lump of bovril, a seasoning of 

 Worcester sauce (all spoils from Trevor-Battye), and ulti- 

 mately, when Garwood's jodel was heard on the slopes, half 

 a tin of Irish stew. Ye gods ! what a jorum it was ! and 

 how it and the fried slices of rich plum-pudding that 

 followed suited the complaint of two hungry mortals, whose 

 food for many days had been stringy reindeer or concen- 

 trated rations ! The charmed, unsetting sun looked down 

 upon us, warmed the soles of our feet, and dried our 

 garments. The wind slept. It was an hour of peace 

 and perfect charm — light, colour, air, scenery, all fair and 

 pleasant': to every sense, rare combination, nor in Spits- 

 bergen only. 



Such times do not long endure. The spell was broken 

 by a puff of wind that rattled the tent, harbinger of a gale 

 soon to follow. All our Spitsbergen camps were of neces- 

 sity in exposed positions. We found no sheltering rocks, 

 whilst all hollow places were boggy. Dry ground was only 

 on protruding knolls, bare to every wind that chose to blow. 

 The gale that opened fire on us after midnight boomed against 

 our canvas walls and roof, and made the stretched ropes 



