THE GOOSING 247 
The amount reindeer drink at this time of year, 
while they are growing new horns and shedding their 
coats, is perfectly astonishing. The whole way along 
one or the other is either trying to drink or else is 
snatching mouthfuls of snow. 
About midnight we reached Scharok. Hyland had 
just finished his supper. He was very well. 
‘Well, sir,’ says Hyland, ‘I am glad to see you back. 
It’s pretty lonely down here by yourself, especially with 
these divers always screaming.’ 
‘They certainly are the most melancholy birds,’ I 
replied. The red-throated diver, you must understand, 
has a cry much like a woman’s wailing. 
In addition to a female Siberian herring-gull, a pair of 
glaucous gulls, and a female snowy owl, Hyland had 
obtained, while I was away, a sanderling in summer 
plumage. 
I had brought with me four geese, which we boiled, 
and Uano and I had supper together. Then at 2 a.m. he 
jumped on his sleigh and galloped off across the creeks. 
Hyland had one bad little bit of news for me, for the 
turnstone had escaped and the waiter had died. 
There had come an evening when the fog fell heavily 
and threatened cold. Yet the waiter was making a 
good supper off his store of equisetum when last seen 
by Hyland. But the fog changed to frost; there was 
no warm wing of a mother to run under, and I suppose 
that did it—the cold. 
