It goes without saying that this extra work was not particularly agreeable.

That night we slept with our mittens on, ready at a moment's notice for anything that might happen.

Had a new lead formed directly across the sleeping platform of our igloo, precipitating us into the icy water, we should not have been surprised after the first shock of the cold bath, but should have clambered out, scraping the water off our fur garments, and made ready for the next move on the part of our treacherous antagonist--the ice.
Notwithstanding the extra fatigue and the precarious position of our camp, this last march had put us well beyond my record of three years before, probably 87 deg.

12', so that I went to sleep with the satisfaction of having at last beaten my own record, no matter what the morrow might bring forth.
The following day, March 29, was not a happy one for us.

Though we were all tired enough to rest, we did not enjoy picnicking beside this arctic Phlegethon, which, hour after hour, to the north, northeast, and northwest, seemed to belch black smoke like a prairie fire.