My Dear Lady Misericordia,

I hope this letter finds you well. We have had yet another day of excitement, I'm afraid. I can't help feeling that this adventure has a little too much adventure in it for my liking.

When we awoke this morning, all was peaceful. Too peaceful - the dogs had gone. And so had Oxshott.

Jim the Finn told us that he had woken up in the early dawn to discover Oxshott untying all the dogs. Before he had been able to do anything, Oxshott had run off, the dogs running after him in a pack.

"He goes hunting, he said," Jim shook his head, confused, "But nothing there is to hunt here. Nothing."

"What's the bally fool playing at now?" scowled Lord Daunt.

"The polar bear," said Harry, "He's gone after the polar bear!"

Indeed he had, but he didn't get very far. He stumped back into camp when we were still eating breakfast, managing to look both cross and shamefaced all at once.

"Dogs ran away. Lost the scent," he said, and sat down, sulkily, "Move dashed fast, those bears."

"Run away?" Lord Daunt was aghast, "What do you mean, run away? You've lost the dogs?"

"Don't think they liked the bear," said Oxshott.

"Very sensible of them," said the Professor, fiddling with the little camping stove he was using to fix his porridge.

"This is true, they are not liking the bear, these dogs," said Jim despondently, "They will run far away. They will not come back."

"Not come back?" roared Lord Daunt, "You mean this bally idiot has lost the dogs and they won't be coming back! How are we going to continue our journey now?"

I couldn't take my eyes off the Professor's camping stove.

"I think, my Lord," I said, "I might have an idea."

It was Harry who had the truly clever idea, however. My plan was to use the Professor's camping stove (and a couple of others we had packed) to create small steam engines - we certainly had enough snow to keep them supplied with steam. We could then use those engines to power the sleds across the snow.

The problem was: how? Wheels were useless on the powdery snow and ski's would just slide and give us enough grip to push forward. Which was when Harry had his really very ingenious idea.

Harry and I quickly set about building the steam engines, while the rest of the party spent a couple of hours hammering nails through the long leather straps we had been using to secure our supplies onto the sleds, Oxshott complaining bitterly all the while.

Once they were done, though, we could use the straps as tracks, the nails digging into the snow as they whizzed round, driving the sleds along.

We had one slight hiccup, though, when it came to actually joining the tracks to the engines, as we had no drive belts to pass the spinning of the engine to the wheel that turned the tracks. It was here that Harry once more came to the rescue with, strangely enough, a couple of pairs of ladies' stockings. 

He always keeps some around, apparently, because they are extraordinarily useful. We laughed and ribbed him somewhat but he is quite right - he showed me how to use one as a fine filter and also that they made exceptionally strong and elastic bindings. And, most importantly, they made excellent drive belts. 

He really is a most inventive and resourceful young man. The Professor has promised us both jobs with him when we return and I look forward to working with Harry immensely.

And so, with our engines fitted, we were soon off, chugging over the great white expanse, our little engines huffing and rattling away as we kept them happily supplied with fresh snow.

The weather was starting to clear and we set out once more under a perfect bright blue sky, sending up our own little white clouds as we went along.

Jim in particular was very taken by my 'snow-steam-train', as he called it, and whooped and laughed as he shovelled snow, much to the annoyance of Oxshott, who was travelling on his sled.

I am, I must admit, becoming worried about Oxshott. He is hardly a friend of mine, but he seems so sad and bad-tempered that it is hard not to feel a little sorry for him. I'm not sure whether it's your father's harsh words that have upset him so much, or the escape of the polar bear.

Given how angry your father is with him, after all, there seems little point in him capturing all these trophies to send home to you - I cannot now believe your father would ever let him marry you, he has disgraced himself so much.

But then, I am not wholly sure that he is collecting all these heads for you. I mean, I am sure he will present them to you (whether you want them or not) but I think he would be collecting them anyway - it has become an obsession with him, a mania.

Tonight, as we were setting up camp, for example, I heard him bark with delight and then shout at me to:

"Stand still, you blighter!"

Before I knew what he was doing, he bounded over and, with a delicacy I wouldn't have expected from him, flicked something away from my cheek. A mosquito!

Oxshott had flicked it on the proboscis with his nail and stunned the thing. He now bent down and gingerly picked it up from the snow.

"Need a specially small plaque for this little swine," he said, beaming at me. I assumed he was joking, but he bore the tiny thing away cupped in his hand like it was a precious jewel.

Later, while we were eating supper, he was feverishly at work on something, whittling away at some tiny bit of wood in his lap, barely paying attention to his food (which was something of a relief, I must admit, as our meal times previously had been accompanied by a constant stream of complaint from Oxshott about both the quantity and quality of our Expedition Rations).

Then, after our meal, he gathered us all round the fire and showed us what he had made: a tiny wooden shield lay in the centre of his palm and, in the middle of it, a barely visible speck - the head of mosquito, carefully removed and mounted on the plaque. Beneath in miniscule and careful letters: 'Mosquito. Arctic Circle.'

Lord Daunt just clucked his tongue and retreated to his tent, but Harry and I tried to be as encouraging as possible. I don't think Oxshott was interested in what we thought, though. He remained perfectly happy with his evening's work and returned to his tent with his little plaque, singing drinking songs under his breath.

We are going to bed ourselves now. The Professor assures us that we only have to cross the mountains to reach our final destination. So near and yet so far!

Yours,

In hope that the polar bear does not come back again

Timothy Hope

PS Jim, our Finn, is to leave us tomorrow - I believe the Professor wants to keep knowledge of our destination as secret as possible. I shall give Jim my letters to bring back with him.