WE WALK ACROSS 95 
down my load I started out to see if I could not find 
something that would burn. 
In the ordinary way you might as well look for—what 
shall I say?—a bishop at Rosherville, as for a piece of 
wood on Kolguev, excepting by the coast. By an ex- 
traordinary bit of good fortune, however, I came upon a 
small piece which had doubtless dropped off a sleigh. 
Carrying it back, I set to work to chip it with my knife. 
Every little chip (it was very hard, and would not split) 
I treasured as carefully as though it had been diamond 
—more carefully. At last, having made about two 
handfuls, and having piled up moss and green creeping 
birch, I really got a fire—a poor smouldering thing like 
weed-burning—but still a fire. Into this the kettle was 
stuffed. And after an incredible amount of blowing and 
choking and blowing again the kettle really sang. It 
wouldn't boil, but it did sing; a great concession under 
the circumstances. 
I made some Bovril this time; it is safer than tea with 
lukewarm water. 
This was a pretty good place. For there was a sort 
of little dry ditch which as you lay on your back just 
caught your shoulder-blades nicely and kept off the 
draughts. 
So we slept there till 7.30 p.m. After this we rose 
another hill, and then came to a bad obstacle. 
The hill formed a sort of amphitheatre. Circling 
round it, we dropped by steep slopes to the edge of a 
