My invention did not, however, turn out so satisfactory as was expected. The hut, if more commodious, and admitting of a little movement without knocking down the loose snow all over us, was much colder than either of our dens of the Kalutunah plan, the temperature in each of which stood about zero through the night, elevated to that degree by the heat radiated from our own persons, and from the lamp which cooked the supper. But this pit under the sledge could not be warmed above 20° below zero. No amount of coaxing could induce the thermometer to rise. Notwithstanding all this I still adhered to my theory about snow-huts, and I very unjustly threw the blame on Jensen for carelessness in the construction; so I sent him out to pile on more snow. This did not mend matters in the least, but rather made them worse; for, through the now open door-way, what little warmth we had managed to get up made its escape; and when Jensen came back and we shut ourselves in again, the temperature was -35°, and never afterwards reached higher than -30°. Even Kalutunah was troubled to sleep, and, as he rubbed his eyes and pounded his feet together to keep them from freezing, he made a grimace which told more plainly than words in what low estimation he held the Nalegaksoak's talents for making snow-huts. [Sidenote: LOW TEMPERATURE.] The cause of all this trouble was, however, explained next morning. The hut was well enough, and I stuck ever afterward to the plan, and even Kalutunah was compelled to own that it was the correct thing. It was perfectly tight. The thermometer told the story. As it hung against the snow wall I called Jensen's attention to it. The top of the delicate red streak of alcohol stood at 31° below zero. We crawled out in the open air at last, to try the sunshine. "I will give you the best buffalo-skin in the ship, Jensen, if the air outside is not warmer than in that den which you have left so full of holes." And it really seemed so. Human eye never lit upon a more pure and glowing morning. The sunlight was sparkling all over the landscape and the great world of whiteness; and the frozen plain, the hummocks, the icebergs, and the tall mountains, made a picture inviting to the eye. Not a breath of air was stirring. Jensen gave in without a murmur. "Well, the hut must have been full of holes, after all; but I'll fix it next time." I brought out the thermometer and set it up in the shadow of an iceberg near by. I really expected to see it rise; but no, down sank the little red column, down, down, almost to the very bulb, and it never stopped until it had touched 68½° below zero,--100½° below the freezing point of water.[7] [Footnote 7: It is worthy of observation that the lowest temperature recorded at Port Foulke, during my absence, was 27° below zero.]