THE WHITE WORLD 



dogs, all howling and leaping and straining at their leashes, 

 I knew something had gone wrong at the hut. 



That instant a rough human figure emerged from the 

 mouth of a tunnel leading down into the snow-bank. The 

 man held a rifle in his hand. He was dressed in furs. His 

 face was as black as a stoker's. 



" Bjoervig, how are you? " 



" I am well, sir, but — but poor Bentzen is dead." 



We stood silent for a moment, hands grasped, and look- 

 ing into each other's eyes. A tear trickled down upon 

 Bjoervig's black cheek and froze there. Then his coun- 

 trymen came up, and when he told them the news these 

 simple-hearted fellows were as dumb as I had been. It 

 was Bjoervig who did the talking. We only listened and 

 watched him, being but dimly conscious of the true nature 

 of the tragedy within whose shadow we stood. Bjoervig 

 talked and laughed and cried by turns. But he did not 

 forget his hospitality. He was both a man and a Norse- 

 man. 



" Come in, sir, come in and have some hot coffee. You 

 must be tired from your journey." 



He dived down into the mouth of the tunnel, pulling me 

 after him. First we entered a cavern in the snow where a 

 mother dog lay nursing a hairy, squeaking little brood. 

 Hardy puppies these, opening their eyes and gulping milk 

 in a temperature 70 degrees below freezing. The mother 

 dog licked Bjoervig's hand and growled at me. Now we 

 went down on our hands and knees and crawled through 

 an opening in the rock wall of the hut. A bear-skin was 

 hung there for a door. Once inside I tried to stand erect 

 and bumped my head against the frost with which the 

 ceiling was covered. It was so dark in there I could see 

 nothing at all, and Bjoervig led me to a seat. 



" Sit down, sir, sit down and rest yourself, and I'll have 

 the coffee ready in a moment." 



At one side of the hut, in a niche in the rocky wall, a 

 bit of fire was smouldering. Bjoervig put on a few pieces 

 of dried driftwood and a big hunk of walrus blubber and 

 the flames burst out. Very cheerful and bright the fire 

 looked, but not a particle of heat did we get from it. What 

 was not used in boiling the coffee went up the chimney. 



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