My Dear Lady Misericordia,

I hope this letter finds you well. I wonder, of course, when I might ever get to send you this letter, now that we have gone beyond the postal service even of Norway, and not just the postal service, either. We are also now beyond grocers, butchers, farmers, vegetable patches and even berry bushes. We are beyond, in fact, food.

I am, in case you had not guessed,  starving hungry. We are on what your father likes to call 'Expedition Rations'. 'A feast' compared to what he had to live on during the Indian Mutiny, apparently, and he did not seem at all swayed when I pointed out that the only thing likely to make Jim, our guide, and the dogs rise in rebellion against us were the Expedition Rations themselves.

'Be prepared, Hope, always my motto, be prepared, like the scouts,' is what he said, and then he repeated his joke.

Your father came up with his joke when we were on the train, after my encounter with the wolves, which appeared to strike him as terribly entertaining, and ever since then has repeated it at every opportunity. He appears to find it funnier and funnier every time he repeats it.

This is his Lordship's joke:

'Better to travel with Hope, than to arrive,' and then he laughs away to himself, under his breath.

He is quite wrong about it getting funnier. Entirely the opposite, in fact.

Anyway, 'Expedition Rations' it is, which means, as far as I can tell, just enough to whet the appetite but nowhere near enough to feel actually fed. And after all my excitement yesterday, I especially needed nourishment, but no special favour was given, not to me, and not to Baronet Oxshott, even after he had lost most of his dinner to the Professor's whip practice.

So hungry to bed it was for all of us, which might go some way to explaining happened during the night.

I am sharing a tent with Harry, and we talked for a little while, speculating on where our journey might be taking us. Eventually we both dropped off to sleep and I dreamt happily of Latin lessons until I suddenly found myself being shaken awake by Harry.

"Mr Hope, there's something up!" Indeed there was - the camp was alive with shouting and bellowing.

We leapt from our sleeping bags and out into the snow (we all sleep fully clothed here, what with the cold, and Harry even keeps his cap on in bed, I have discovered) and there, in the dying firelight, came upon the most spectacular tableau.

There in the centre of the camp, surrounded by the dogs, all snarling and barking, was Baronet Oxshott, in nothing but his red flannel underclothes, and, facing him, a huge Polar Bear!

It was quite the most enormous creature I have ever seen, a great powerful mountain of white fur, that lumbered to and fro round the fire, confused and annoyed by the lights and the noise. Oxshott was holding a frying pan in one hand and there, in it, four rashers of half-cooked bacon.

He had obviously been cooking a midnight snack for himself and the smell had attracted the bear!

Oxshott was now holding the frying pan as far away from the bear as he could, not daring to take his eyes off the huge animal as it sniffed and snuffed at him, trying to discover which was the tasty, tempting smelling bit of him and which was the hairy, shouting bit.

Oxshott edged backwards round the fire, pan first, and the bear edged after him, torn between the strange threat of the flames and the smell of the bacon.

Lord Daunt stuck his head out of his tent, took one look at the situation and bellowed:

"Oxshott!"

The bear swung round at the noise and, with a surprised "Bear!", his Lordship ducked back inside. And at that moment, Oxshott, taking advantage of the distraction leapt from the fire, making for his own tent. But the bear was quicker: with surprising speed for such a large animal, it wheeled around, the great head lunged forward at the bacon and, without thinking, Oxshott punched it squarely on the nose!

Taken completely by surprise the bear reared back, its massive paws, like soup plates with claws on, flailing around, and then it turned and lolloped off into the night.

"Blighter was trying to steal my bacon," explained Oxshott, gruffly.

"My bacon," pointed out Lord Daunt, re-emerging, "It was trying to steal the bacon you had stolen from my supplies."

"Dashed hungry," mumbled Oxshott

"So was he," interjected the Professor, "The world's largest land predator, the Polar Bear - needs a lot of meat, I should imagine."

"Must be hungry, yes," said Jim, our Finnish guide, "Never this far south, only when has hungry."

"Largest, is he?" Oxshott gazed off into the darkness where the bear, "Big head, wasn't it?"

"Well, if you've quite finished larking about, Oxshott," said Lord Daunt, who was evidently still upset about the bacon, "Perhaps we can all get back to bed, busy day tomorrow."

"Dashed well will be," said Oxshott, mysteriously, and dived back into his tent.

"Fool," muttered Lord Daunt, "And the rest of you," and he too disappeared back inside.

Harry and I returned to our tent, to discuss Oxshott, Polar Bears and, happily, oatcakes, a secret supply of which Harry has generous offered to share with me. Splendid chap. Now, perhaps, my gnawing hunger sated, I might be able to see.

Yours,

Covered in crumbs and quite exhausted

Timothy Hope, Esq, Tutor