As an ungentle reminder of what was ahead of us, though going at half speed because of the fog, we struck a small berg a little way out from the harbor.

Had the _Roosevelt_ been an ordinary ship instead of the sturdy ice-fighter that she is, my story might have ended right here.

As it was, the shock of the impact jarred things considerably.

But the berg suffered more than the ship, which only shook herself like a dog coming out of the water, and with the main mass of the berg swaying heavily on one side from the blow we had given it, and a large fragment we had broken off churning the water on the other side, the _Roosevelt_ scraped between them and went on.
This little incident made a strong impression on the new members of my party, and I did not think it necessary to tell them that it was only a mosquito bite to the crunching and grinding between the jaws of the heavier ice that was in store for us a little farther on.

We were working in a northwesterly direction toward the Ellesmere Land side, and headed for Cape Sabine, of terrible memories.