coast-line was followed, and, at last, when stomach cried out like a
striking clock, one realised that it was 2 p.m. or so, and a little glow
indicated the whereabouts of the hut. Approaching it, one saw the tall
chimney silhouetted against the sky, then the black shapes which oddly
proclaimed themselves to be motor-sledges, store heaps or fodder dumps,
and finally the hut itself. One stumbled over the tide-crack and up on to
the much trodden snow which covered the Cape Evans's beach. Six or seven
pairs of skis stuck in the snow near the hut door indicated that most
people had come in to lunch, so there was need to haste. Off came one's
own skis, and with a lusty stab in they went heel downwards into the snow
alongside the other ones, so that when a new fall came they would stand
up vertically and be easily found again.

The sticks one took into the hut, because even in our well-appointed
family there were pirates who borrowed them and forgot to replace them.
Entering the hut after kicking much snow from boots one passed first
through the acetylene smelling porch--Handy Andy's pride--as we called
Day's gas plant, then in to the seamen's quarters, where the smell of
cooking delighted and the sight of those great, hefty sailors scoffing
the midday meal hustled one still more.

In the officers' half of the hut most people were already busy with their
knives and forks, two or three perhaps just sitting down, the night
watch-man probably sitting up on the edge of his bunk putting on his
slippers, and cheerfully accepting the friendly insults from his pals at
table who told him the date and year--down went ski-sticks on the bed,
room would be made at the table, and half a dozen dishes pushed your way,
and although the mess-traps were enamelled, the food you shuffled down
from the tin plate and the cocoa you lapped from the blue and white mug
had not its equal at the Carlton, the Ritz, or the Berkeley.