as on board. On
former journeys I had sometimes felt anxiety, but through the whole of
this last expedition I allowed nothing to worry me. Perhaps this feeling
of surety was because every possible contingency had been discounted,
perhaps because the setbacks and knock-out blows received in the past
had dulled my sense of danger.

The _Roosevelt_ having coaled at Sydney, we crossed the bay to North
Sydney to take on some last items of supplies. When we started to leave
the wharf over there we discovered that we were aground, and had to wait
an hour or so for the tide to rise. In our efforts to move the ship, one
of the whale-boats was crushed between the davits and the side of the
pier; but after eight arctic campaigns one does not regard a little
accident like that as a bad omen.

We got away from North Sydney about half past three in the afternoon of
July 17, in glittering golden sunshine. As we passed the signal station,
they signaled us, "Good-by and a prosperous voyage"; we replied, "Thank
you," and dipped our colors.

A little tug, which we had chartered to take our guests back to Sydney,
followed the _Roosevelt_ as far as Low Point Light, outside the harbor;
there she ran alongside, and Mrs. Peary and the children, and Colonel
Borup, with two or three other friends, transferred to her. As my
five-year-old son, Robert, kissed me good-by, he said, "Come back soon,
dad." With reluctant eyes I watched the little tug grow smaller and
smaller in the blue distance. Another farewell--and there had been so
many! Brave, noble little woman! You have borne with me the brunt of all
my arctic work. But, somehow, this parting was less sad than any which
had gone before. I think that we both felt it was the last.

By the time the stars came out, the last items of supplies taken on at
North Sydney were stowed, and the decks at least were unusually free
for an arctic ship just starting northward--all but the quarter-deck,
which was piled high with bags of coal.

Inside the cabins, however, all was litter and confusion. My room was
filled so full of things--instruments, books, furniture, presents from
friends, supplies, et cetera--that there was no space for me. Since my
return some one has asked me if I played on the pianola in my cabin that
first day at sea. I did not, for the excellent reason that I could not
get near it. The thrilling experiences of those first few hours were
mainly connected with excavating a space some si