the science by which a man may become acquainted with himself, and
in moments like the present, when both his mental and physical
spirits overflowed, he even went so far as to attempt poor
Radisson's "La Belle Marie" in the Frenchman's heavy basso,
something between a dog's sullen growl and the low rumble of
distant thunder.  It made him cough.  And then he laughed again,
scanning the narrowing sweep of the lake ahead of him. 

He felt like a boy, and he chuckled as he thought of the definite
reason for it.  For twenty-three months he had been like a piece of
rubber stretched to a tension--sometimes almost to the snapping
point.  Now had come the reaction, and he was going HOME.  Home! It
was that one word that caused a shadow to flit over his face, and
only once or twice had he forgotten and let it slip between his
lips.  At least he was returning to civilization--getting AWAY from
the everlasting drone of breaking ice and the clack-clack tongue
of the Eskimo. 

With the stub of a pencil Philip had figured out on a bit of paper
about where he was that morning.  The whalebone hut of his last