It was a lively breakfast we had that morning. Johansen and I spoke of how incredible it seemed that we should soon press our comrades' hands again. Sir George was almost beside himself with joy. Every now and then he would spring up from his chair, thump the table, and cry, "The Fram has arrived! The Fram has really arrived!" Lady Baden-Powell was quietly happy; she enjoyed our joy. The next day we entered Tromsö harbor, and there lay the Fram, strong and broad and weather-beaten. It was strange to see again that high rigging and the hull we knew so well. When last we saw her she was half buried in the ice; now she floated freely and proudly on the blue sea, in Norwegian waters. We glided alongside of her. The crew of the Otaria greeted the gallant ship with three times three English cheers, and the Fram replied with a ninefold Norwegian hurrah. We dropped our anchor, and the next moment the Otaria was boarded by the Fram's sturdy crew. The meeting which followed I shall not attempt to describe. I don't think any of us knew anything clearly, except that we were all together again--we were in Norway--and the expedition had fulfilled its task. Then we set off together southward along the Norwegian coast. First came the tug Haalogaland, chartered by the government; then the Fram, heavy and slow, but so much the surer; and last the elegant Otaria, with my wife and me on board--which was to take us to Trondhjem. What a blessed sensation it was to sit in peace at last, and see others take the lead and pick out the way! Wherever we passed, the heart of the Norwegian people went out to us, from the steamers crowded with holiday-making townsfolk, and from the poorest fishing-boat that lay alone among the skerries. It seemed as if old Mother Norway were proud of us, as if she pressed us in a close and warm embrace, and thanked us for what we had done. And what was it, after all? We had only done our duty; we had simply accomplished the task we had undertaken; and it was we who owed her thanks for the right to sail under her flag. I remember one morning in particular. It was in Brönösund--the morning was still gray and chill when I was called up--there were so many people who wanted to greet us. I was half asleep when I came on deck. The whole sound was crowded with boats. We had been going slowly through them, but now the Haalogaland in front put on more speed, and we too went a little quicker. A fisherman in his boat toiled at the oars to keep up with us; it was no easy work. Then he shouted up to me: "You don't want to buy any fish, do you?" "No, I don't think we do." "I suppose you can't tell me where Nansen is? Is he on board the Fram?" "No, I believe he's on board this ship," was the reply. "Oh, I wonder if I couldn't get on board? I'm so desperately anxious to see him." "It can hardly be done, I'm afraid; they haven't time to stop now." "That's a pity. I want to see the man himself."