UPERNIVIK TO COPENHAGEN
I was in a hole. I hate to get in a hole because my first thought—if I have time to think—always is that it is so foolish for a man to get into a hole, so exasperatingly idiotic not to foresee trouble in time to avoid it.
The floe on which I and my team were cut off was apparently encircled by ice too thin to bear the sledge's weight. Clouds in the moonlit sky were hurrying up from the southwest. An onshore wind I knew this meant—outside, but an offshore wind anywhere within five miles of the land. Without any doubt my little island of ice would tear away at the first breath of the storm and go spinning into the very vortex of its center.
My melancholy reflections were, interrupted by the king dog's leaping to his feet almost simultaneously I heard the crack of a whip. Out of the gray night slid a sledge and driver. His handful of dogs were a little black clot in front.