HANS'S STORY. hunt and their families, and these are strong arguments. Needles and knives, and iron and bits of wood, will not feed wives and babies, and a hundred and fifty miles is a long way to carry a child at the breast through the cold and storms of the Arctic night, even though it be to this haven of plenty. My charity was, however, intended to cover a double purpose,—to do them a substantial service, and to stimulate as well their cupidity as that of the tribe who are sure to flock around them at Iteplik, to inspect their riches. I must own, however, that my prospects for obtaining dogs do not look encouraging. But few of the Esquimaux are likely to come so far with their impoverished teams.
Hans sticks to the story of yesterday; and, after questioning and cross-questioning him for an hour, I get nothing new. Although I have no good reason for doubting the truth of his narrative, yet I cannot quite reconcile my mind to the fact that Sonntag, with so much experience to govern him, should have undertaken to travel five miles in wet clothing, especially as he was accompanied by a native hunter who was familiar with all of the expedients for safety upon the ice-fields, and to whom falling in the water is no unusual circumstance. The sledge and the canvas apron which inclosed the cargo furnished the means for constructing a temporary shelter from the wind, and the sleeping-bag would have insured against freezing while Hans got ready the dry clothing, of which Sonntag carried a complete change. Nor can I understand how he should have lived so long and have given Hans no message for me, nor have spoken a word after coming out of the water, further than to have ordered his driver to hasten back to the snow-
