There is a shot. The bear is hit in the neck. A stream of blood welters out, coloring the water and the bear’s own skin with crimson. The heavy body gives a mighty lurch and with its last ounce of strength attempts to dive, and we can see when it is in the water how it tries with its powerful claws to get deeper down. But its strength gives out, and, turning on its back, it gives out a series of terrible roars. A shot in the chest and now it lies still beside the crimson-dyed water. We cut a hole in its neck and drag it across the ice-floe, where we proceed to skin it. They watch us from the ship and, putting a boat out, row across to where we are skinning the bear--an operation which is being filmed and photographed. “Hobby’s” dog Sally accompanies them; she is a mongrel resembling a fox terrier and has the name of every canine breed included in her pedigree. The little animal snuffles around the bear and is finally photographed, by her proud owner, sitting on its back. We take the bear-skin on board, also the gall bladder, the contents of which, according to Arctic traditions, constitute a cure for gout when mixed with an equal quantity of brandy. Safely on board again and we feel like new men. We forget that only an hour ago we cursed the Arctic seas and everything connected with them, whilst we only longed for sunshine and for warmth--for flowers and leafy trees, and for the songs of woodland birds on a summer evening. But now it is changed; we are no longer merely passengers on board, we have become part of the actual life of the ice regions. We at last begin to understand how it is possible for people, year after year, to leave their summer homes and set off to journey amongst ice and snowfields here in the north--not only is it a possibility, but a necessity--for this region possesses a power which draws back to it those who have once visited it. The fog has now vanished, and in the distance we can see Spitzbergen’s coast quite clearly from Norskeöene in the west, to Verlegen Hook in the east. Northwards and eastwards the sea is almost free of ice, while a number of cracks break pieces off the unending ice-plains. We hear an order given to set the engines going, and we, who in the fever of the chase after the bear have almost forgotten the reason we are here, are called back to a world of reality by the first thrum of the motor-engines. “Hobby” is soon steering towards the northeast, making for the most northerly of the Seven Islands. This afternoon the weather has got clearer, and soon after 7 P.M. we enter into the first belt of drift-ice. We understand more and more the charm of life in these high latitudes. The sea is blue, the sky is blue, and jolly little waves are washing over the small ice-floes, while each ripple (under the influence of a northeast breeze) is tipped with foam which glistens in the glorious sunshine, making all on board feel well pleased with the world at large. We pass