It was not an ideal camping-place by any means, but darkness had overtaken us.

We hauled the boats up, and by 8 p.m.
had the tents pitched and the blubber-stove burning cheerily.

Soon all hands were well fed and happy in their tents, and snatches of song came to me as I wrote up my log.
Some intangible feeling of uneasiness made me leave my tent about 11 p.m.that night and glance around the quiet camp.

The stars between the snow-flurries showed that the floe had swung round and was end on to the swell, a position exposing it to sudden strains.

I started to walk across the floe in order to warn the watchman to look carefully for cracks, and as I was passing the men's tent the floe lifted on the crest of a swell and cracked right under my feet.