BARTLETT REACHES 87 deg.

47' Our hopes were soon realized, for at one o'clock in the morning, March 30, when I awoke and looked at my watch, the murmur from the closing lead had increased to a hoarse roar, punctuated with groans and with reports like those of rifles, dying away to the east and west like the sounds from a mighty firing line.

Looking through the peep-hole, I saw that the black curtain had thinned so that I could see through it to another similar, though blacker, curtain behind, indicating still another lead further on.
[Illustration: CROSSING A LARGE LAKE OF YOUNG ICE, NORTH OF 87 deg.
("As Level as a Floor" for Six or Seven Miles.

In Places This Ice Was so Thin That It Buckled Under the Sledges and Drivers)] At eight o'clock in the morning the temperature was down to minus 30 deg., with a bitter northwest breeze.

The grinding and groaning of the ice had ceased, and the smoke and haze had disappeared, as is usual when a lead closes up or freezes over.